“I'm learning not to hope for what I can't control...”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“A small part of the South not yet gone with the wind.”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“How many more burdens do you think you can bear alone? How many more years can I go on alone, without you? Our days are filled from dawn to dusk, honey, but our lives are empty.”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“The pathway to hell was paved with good intentions, but what about the wrongs committed for the right reasons? Were they included as well? Life had taught him that anything that starts wrong, ends wrong. In this case, he supposed that only time and its unpredictable mercies would tell. - Percy”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“It was more as if they recognize they were two halves of a whole who'd found their missing.
Matt and Rachel”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“He ragarded her in surprise. This was a different tune from the one he'd expected to hear, certainly a change from the verse she'd sung when he was a boy. Commitment to ones' name, to one's heritage, to that which the sacrifices of others had made possible -- that was the song he used to hear from Aunt Mary.
"Yes, I do," she said, "If I've learned anything by now, it's that some things are too priceless to sacrifice for a name." - Mary and William”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“Memory could be a terrible thing .. an instrument of torture that persists in its work long after a man has suffered his time upon the rack.”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
“silence. Finally, he said, “So you and”
― Leila Meacham, quote from Roses
Leila Meacham
Born place: The United States
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“All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
― Dante Alighieri, quote from The Divine Comedy
“There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.
No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived and then by some means or other, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes- forming patterns we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'll mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection) but still unique.
Without individuals we see only numbers, a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people- but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, this skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.
And the simple truth is this: There was a girl, and her uncle sold her.”
― Neil Gaiman, quote from American Gods
“Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the little ones still wonder.”
― J.M. Barrie, quote from Peter Pan
“And suddenly solitude fell across his heart like a dusty reflection. He closed his eyes. The dark doors within him opened and he entered. The next performance in the theater of Grenouille's soul was beginning.”
― Patrick Süskind, quote from Perfume: The Story of a Murderer
“We have so much to say, and we shall never say it.”
― Erich Maria Remarque, quote from All Quiet on the Western Front
My Heart and Other B...
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My Lady Jane
You Shall Know Our V...
Roses are RedBookQuoters is a community of passionate readers who enjoy sharing the most meaningful, memorable and interesting quotes from great books. As the world communicates more and more via texts, memes and sound bytes, short but profound quotes from books have become more relevant and important. For some of us a quote becomes a mantra, a goal or a philosophy by which we live. For all of us, quotes are a great way to remember a book and to carry with us the author’s best ideas.
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