Quote

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

Sonya Hartnett

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Sonya Hartnett
Age: 56
Born: 1968
Born: March 23
Author
Novelist
Writer
Box Hill
Victoria
Australia
Cameron S. Redfern
Like
Sigh
Slow
Dying
Word
Sound
Beautiful
Thing
Long
Cello

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She doesn't understand that doors, walls, fences, ceilings - they're helpless to keep out what determinedly desires to get in.
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Nothing was easy, and sometimes she failed, and sometimes she thought that the fairy stories were right, that there must indeed be easier ways of living happily ever after but defeat is a poor ending to any tale, so she kept trying.
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Yeah, reflections! The same, but different. Like twins - like blood brothers! And when you need something bad done, like punishment or revenge, you'll just ask me, and I will do it -
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You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and get lonely, and find your own food and get wet when it rains. That's what happens when you're alive.
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There is nothing that is more beautiful than everything else in the world.
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Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.
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It is scary, sometimes, Tomas admitted. But the scary bits are what make you brave.
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My life was pouring out my feet and seeping through cracks in the floor yet still I knelt and did not move, for fear she'd let go my hands. Let me stay, I wanted to beg: Please don't make me go.
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I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.
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I thought about how stupid it is, that all of us are born destined to desire somebody else, though desire brings with it such disappointment and pain. Humankind's history must be scored bloody with heartbreak. This hankering for affection is a blight upon us.
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No bird in a cage ever speaks. What is there to say? The sky is everywhere, churning above its head, blue and endless, calling out to it. But the caged bird can't answer anything except 'I cannot'.
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I would always be lonely, but no more alone.
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A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.
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Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair.
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