Kim Edwards Quotes
You can't spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won't work. You'll just end up missing the life you have.
She didn't love him and he didn't love her; she was like an addiction, and what they were doing had a darkness to it, a weight.
Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea.
...and the distance between them, millimeters only, the space of a breath, opened up and deepened, became a cavern at whose edge he stood.
It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.
Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
You can't stop time. You can't capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down.
Music is like you touch the pulse of the world. Music is always happening, and sometimes you get to touch it for a while, and when you do you know that everything's connetcted to everything else.
He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.
She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.
After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?
No one could suspect the intricate mysteries of her heart.
Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.
Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect.
Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.
Norah watched him, serious and utterly absorbed in his task, overcome by the simple fact of his existence.
It seemed there was no end at all to the lies a person could tell, once she got started.
A fear Paul had transformed all these years, like a gifted alchemist, into anger and rebellion.
There was something not quite right about her eagerness, an eerie kind of voyeurism in her need for bad news.
That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him.
Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.
Its impossible to control the reception of your work - the only thing you can control is the experience of writing itself, and the work you create.
This is what he knew that Paul didn't: the world was precarious and sometimes cruel. He'd had to fight hard to achieve what Paul simply took for granted.
The Lake of Dreams grew gradually, over many years, elements and ideas accruing until they gained enough critical mass to become a novel.
Your understanding of a place changes the longer you stay; you discover more, and your own life gets woven into the fabric of the community.
His love for her was so deeply woven with resentment that he could not untangle the two.
But she had felt since childhod that her life would n ot be ordinary. A moment would come- she would know it when she saw it- and everything would change.
I think that the whole child welfare system has to be totally taken apart and built up again. Have an agency just specifically for those follow-up cases.
The city of Pittsburgh gleaming suddenly before her . . . so startling in its vastness and its beauty that she had gasped and slowed, afraid of losing control of the car
So something had begun, and now she could not stop it. Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement. She could leave this place today. She could start a new life somewhere else.
A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.
You don't want to engage in road rage when the person in the next car might be your child's future teacher or your dentist's father.
'The Lake of Dreams' grew gradually, over many years, elements and ideas accruing until they gained enough critical mass to become a novel.