The Winter Garden

Alas," the Spider Queen said softly, "life needs dark leaves in the wreath. There cannot be true joy without sorrow, or real happiness without loss. They come as a pair. It is simply how it must be, if one is to live a full life. Take my own wreath, for example." She pointed at a particularly striking one made up of foliage so dark it was almost purple and black in places, but brightened with spectacular bursts of scarlet poinsettia. "I first saw the poinsettia in Mexico," she said. "The Euphorbia pulcherrima, to give it its botanical name, but it's also known as a 'Christmas star' because of its red pigment, so vibrant and bold. I would not give up my dark leaves if it meant losing the poinsettia," she said.

How much more straightforward it was to bear a physical illness or malady. You need not do anything but rest, and the body simply healed itself. Miseries of the mind, however, were quite another matter; they were a sticky spider's web, and Beatrice had learned that the more you struggled against them, the tighter the strands seemed to bind you.

Whenever Beatrice was forced into company, she’s often found herself overwhelmed by the sudden desperate urge to flee. She felt herself drowning in chit-chat groups and teacups, hungry to gulp down the air of solitude. We all think our own problems are uniquely difficult. But the truth is. Everyone struggles. With something. That is. Unbearable. To them.

...a man could not possibly compare with the fascination of a mushroom.

Some things - some mistakes ... Well, we just have to live with them, that's all. And there's no shortcut or magical solution that will undo them.

After one whole year, the only thing she knew for sure was that motherhood was exhausting, terrifying and nerve-racking, and every day seemed to force her to learn anew what she must do. Yet it was also the most rewarding adventure of her life, and she thrilled at the thought of all that lay ahead - which made up for all the moments when she was laid low with uncertainty and doubt.

I imagine I shall hunt orchids, in one fashion or another, until the day I die. My father considers the whole thing a mania, and perhaps he's right." "A mania," she repeated. "Why, that's putting it rather strongly!" James shrugged. "I'm not so sure. If something brings you more grief and heartache than reward and pleasure, yet you persist in the endeavour anyway, then how else might one describe it?

When my mama died," he said, without looking up, "the adults were always saying it would get easier." Beatrice knew that James's mother was dead, but he never talked about her, and she was surprised to hear him do so now. "That was a while ago," he went on, "And it's still ... well, I miss her. And I hate that she's not here. I feel like there's a big central piece that's been ripped out of me. I think the grown-ups lie to try to make you feel better, but it isn't true. It doesn't get easier. But you do get stronger, and that's ... well. It's something.