Quote

But when Bumby nursed, his fist clutching the fabric of my robe, his eyes soft and bottomless and locked on mine, as if I were the very heart of his universe, I couldn't help but melt into him.

Paula McLain

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Paula McLain
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 7
Author
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Fresno
California
Universe
Locked
Robe
Helping
Soft
Bottomless
Heart
Mines
Melt
Mine
Fist
Couldn
Robes
Eyes
Fists
Help
Nurse
Nursed
Eye
Fabric
Clutching

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I'd had my share of rain. My mother's illness ... had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty eight.
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I miss good old-fashioned honorable people just trying to make something of life. Simply, without hurting anyone else. I know that makes me a sap.
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My life was my life I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.
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You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through.
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To marry was to say you believed in the future and in the past, too-that history and tradition and hope could stay knit together to hold you up.
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... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.
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I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.
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There was only today to throw yourself into without thinking about tomorrow, let alone forever. To keep you from thinking, there was liquor, an ocean's worth at least, all the usual vices and plenty of rope to hang yourself with. Love is a beautiful liar.
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Not everyone out in a storm wants to be saved
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The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?
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Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.
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Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.
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Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.
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This was my one brush with love. Was it love? It felt awful enough. I spent another two years crawling around in the skin of it, smoking too much and growing too thin and having stray thoughts of jumping from my balcony like a tortured heroine in a Russian novel.
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But love is love. It makes you do terribly stupid things.
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Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.
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And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.
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I would gladly have climbed out of my skin and into his that night, because I believed that was what love meant.
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