novel

We are in the Dark to one another's Purposes and Intendments, and there are a thousand Intrigues in our little Matters, which will not presently confess their Design, even to sagacious Inquisitors...

The people inside were in intense worship; it seemed to Sarah like they were in another world or something. The pleasantness in the atmosphere drew her in. She felt welcomed, even though she had not been invited; noticed, even though she had not been seen; loved, even though she wasn__ known; and even though it didn__ make sense to her__t didn__ have to.

In this otherworldly moment I am profoundly grateful to be here, to be alone, to experience this thing that no one has ever experienced and that no one else ever will.

Yet if he had been asked_ if he were happy_ He would have admitted readily enough that he was uncomfortable, that he was cold, and badly fed, and venomous; that his clothes were in rags, and his feet and knees and elbows raw and bleeding through much walking and crawling; that he was in ever-present peril of life, and that he really did not expect to survive the adventure he was about to thrust himself into voluntarily, but all this had nothing to do with happiness: that was something he never stopped to think about.

My mother clutches at the collar of my shirt. I rub her back and feel her tears on my neck. It's been decades since our bodies have been this close. It's an odd sensation, like a torn ligament knitting itself back, lumpy and imperfect, usable as long as we know not to push it too hard.

He cannot recall just when that initial feeling of oneness faded, subordinated to the everyday activities of daily living. He is disappointed to realize he can no longer expect to find her up and awaiting his return. Discard 2

Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.

When you care for someone, you don't ruin their life!

Reading a great novel gives the same feeling you have when you fall in love.

In April war was declared with Germany. Wilson and his cabinet__ cabinet that in its lack of distinction was strangely reminiscent of the twelve apostles__et loose the carefully starved dogs of war, and the press began to whoop hysterically against the sinister morals, sinister philosophy, and sinister music produced by the Teutonic temperament. Those who fancied themselves particularly broad-minded made the exquisite distinction that it was only the German Government which aroused them to hysteria; the rest were worked up to a condition of retching indecency. Any song which contained the word "mother" and the word "kaiser" was assured of a tremendous success. At last every one had something to talk about__nd almost every one fully enjoyed it, as though they had been cast for parts in a sombre and romantic play.

The Lord is like lightening. Startled by its appearance and momentarily blinded by the brightness of the flash, when the lightening strikes a person is either destroy or jolted to new life." Elias the Teacher

He found Granny on the porch, asleep. Her chin sat on her chest, rising and falling with her breath. He gathered her up in his arms, light as a girl, and carried her inside to her room. He covered her in her old handed-down quilt. The outer layers were burnished to a luster over decades of sleeping flesh, the inner batting composed of older blankets still. He tucked it under her feet, her elbows and shoulders, and went out into the den and opened the door of the wood stove. A mouth of red coals. He added two lengths of the seasoned white oak they kept stacked on the porch, hot-burning wood for cold nights, and stoked it to a fury before stepping outside.

Love is something that is beyond us. We can't anticipate love. When, where and with whom we fall in love is coincidental and wonderful for the same reason.

Life is full of beautiful moments. Live your life to the fullest. And do what youlove.

What happened is the least of it. It__ a novel, and once you__e finished a novel, what happened in it is of little importance and soon forgotten. What matter are the possibilities and ideas that the novelist__ imaginary plot communicates to us and infuses us with, a plot that we recall far more vividly than real events and to which we pay far more attention.

Underneath the groundyou can't hear a soundnot even the sweet falling rainyou might forget about tomorrowforget about the swallowsbut they won't forget youthey won't forget you

I don__ know why I told you all those things, but I did. Maybe it was because I__ a drunk, and sometimes drunks like to confess.

I thought it was a novel.___t is.___hat__ it about??___ou__l have to buy it to find out, but it__ got everything: love, death and an amusing dog.___his one__ got a recipe for apple crumble,_ I said.__on__ you love that about the novel? The capaciousness?_ he said.