Clare Vanderpool Quotes

Remember when Manifest seemed a place too far away to ever get back to? A place too good to be real. A place one was proud to call home. Remember? For those of us who made it home, let us always remember. And for those who didn't come home, let us never forget.

No, the sky, it is not a contest or an exam. The only question is, can you look up? Can you take it all in?

And in the background of Early's story was her voice. Her soul. Her sadness and longing. Because when it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday. p. 81

My mother was like sand. The kind that warms you on a beach when you come shivering out of the cold water. The kind that clings to your body, leaving its impression on your skin to remind you where you've been and where you've come from. The kind you keep finding in your shoes and your pockets long after you've left the beach. She was also like the sand that archaeologists dig through. Layers and layers of sand that have kept dinosaur bones together for millions of years. And as hot and dusty and plain as that sand might be, those archaeologists are grateful for it, because without it to keep the bones in place, everything would scatter. Everything would fall apart.

They call themselves the Ku Klux Klan and they hate pretty much everyone who isn't like them. If you have the wrong color, religion, or birthplace, they don't like you. Around here it's mostly foreigners they hate.

It was afternoon as we made our way down to the river, accompanied by a running commentary by Early about whether or not the Lord had actually been fly-fishing.
Jesus did have lots of friends who were fishermen, said Early. Maybe after Peter fell into the Sea of Galilee, he decided to give up deep-sea fishing and take up fly-fishing in the river Jordan. Jesus and Peter were friends, so they have gone together. And besides, Jesus wouldn't have even needed waders, because he could walk on water ...

Which would you rather be, Jackie? Angry mad or crazy mad? I think I'd rather be crazy mad, because you can be crazy and still happy.

Sometimes it's best not to see your whole path laid out before you. Let life surprise you ... There are more stars out there than just the ones with names. And they're all beautiful.

This was a land of lost souls. Human beings who had weathered great storms in life, had suffered unspeakable loss, had been put to painful tests of existence, and still remained standing - but just barely.

There are no coincidences. Just miracles by the boatload.

Don't Moan About

Maybe that was how I found comfort just then, even with him being so far away. By remembering the flavor of his words.

As the ocean tugged me at my feet, i realized that Early Auden, that strangest of boys, had saved me from being swept away.

You're jumping into the navigating part too soon. Maybe you should focus on the beauty of those stars up there apart from their function. Just take them in, admire them, before you expect them to lead the way. Besides, who's to say that one group of stars belongs together and only together? Those stars up there are drawn to each other in lots of different ways. They're connected in unexpected ways, just like people.

You know how men are. When they don't feel good, the world comes to a standstill.

Who would dream that one can love without being crushed under the weight of it?

But my mom shook her head at him and said to me, Yes, you made your bed, but for heaven's sakes, don't just lie in it!

Connecting the dots. That's what Mom said stargazing is all about. It's the same up there as it is down here, Jackie. You have to look for the things that connect us all. Find the ways our paths cross, our lives intersect, and our hearts collide.

Maybe the world wasn't made of universals that could be summed up in neat little packages. Maybe there were just people. People who were tired and hurt and lonely and kind in their own way and their own time.

We'd all agreed that we'd outgrown jumping rope, but Shady had given me such a nice gift of a skipping rope, and when there's nothing better to do, I guess you go back to what once felt good.

But the woman, the mother, she watches, she waits, she loves. And she bears the weight of that love. She bears the loss of her son to war. She bears the story of Manifest. When everyone else is crushed by it, by the loss, the pain. When no one else can bear to remember. She is the keeper of the story. Until someone who needs to hear it comes along. When it will be time to make it known. To manifest. That's what a diviner does.

But as anyone worth his salt knows, it's best to get a look at a place before it gets a look at you.

But I wondered. Maybe the world wasn't made of universals that could be summed up in neat little packages. Maybe there were just people. People who were tired and hurt and lonely and kind in there own way and their own time.

We're part of the same constellation, your father and I

If there is such a thing as a universal
and I wasn't ready to throw all of mine out the window
it's that there is power in a story. And if someone pays you such a kindness as to make up a tale so you'll enjoy a gingersnap, you go along with that story and enjoy every last bite.

Fly fishing is not about catching the fish. It is about enjoying the water, the breeze, the fish swimming all around. If you catch one, good. If you don't ... that is even better. That mean you come out and get to try all over again.

They asked him questions he had never thought of: What is more important, the soul or the mind? Are we responsible for each other or only ourselves? Is there such a thing as mystery, or only that which is not yet understood?

a mother's love is fierce.

And if Mozart is for Sundays, who do you listen to the rest of the week?"
"Louis Armstrong on Mondays, Frank Sinatra on Wednesdays. And Glenn Miller on Fridays, unless it's raining. If it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday."
"What about Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?" I asked.
"Those days are quiet. Unless it's raining.

Memories were like sunshine. They warmed you up and left a pleasant glow, but you couldn't hold them.

Finally, Gunner spoke, his voice so fluid and moving, it could have come from the river itself. I once hear a poem about angling. It say when you send out your line, it is like you cast out your troubles to let the current carry them away. I keep casting.

They certainly know their stuff, and any remaining mistakes or intentional variations from the factual are my own doing. In fact, why don't we just say any variations from the factual are intentional and call it good.

You're right," Early said. "Those are two different things."
"What are?", I asked, surprised that he thought I was right about ANYTHING.
"Dying and sleeping. A person should be able to do one without the other sneaking up on him.