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But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.
Sara Gruen
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Sara Gruen
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Vancouver
British Columbia
Car
College
Minutes
Coop
Knew
Nineties
Alone
Eyeballs
Next
Fleeing
Kids
Borrowing
Thing
Minute
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I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.
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I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
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He stares at me, and then leans back in his chair. He's ill, Jacob. I say nothing. He's a paragon schnitzophonic. He's what?! Paragon schnitzophonic, repeats Uncle Al. You mean paranoid schizophrenic? Sure. Whatever. But the bottom line is he's mad as a hatter.
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I look after those who look after me. He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, I also look after those who don't. - Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
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The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.
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Gorillas are in danger of being wiped out by the Ebola virus. I feel like we have limited time to get to know them and understand them and they're going to disappear - that's terrifically sad. Wouldn't it be great if we could stop that?
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I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
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I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky--same as it always was.
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Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
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You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
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Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
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Must protect my little pockets of happiness.
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I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
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Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
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Being the survivor stinks.
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I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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