Kelly Quindlen Quotes

Your heart will never ask your permission to love.

I can tell you that I believe - that the human heart's mysterious ability to love others is never wrong. Your heart will never ask your permission to love. It's going to love whomever it was made to love, and the best thing you can do is follow it.

They ride over pebbles and patches of dusk-colored sunlight, underneath the spread arms of the live oaks and the promise of their green leaves, past houses full of people and rules and prayers and magic. Hannah looks at Baker, and Baker extends her hand outward into the space between them, holding it palm-up for Hannah to take, right there in the heart of the garden.

Hannah searches the clouds, the gulls, the sun. She wants to leave and she wants to stay. She wants to raise her hand to the heavens and command that everything top, that time stills, that the rules and the laws retract their grip so nature can have her way. Hannah wants to sit up off her towel and look across her friend's lined-up bodies, frozen in time beneath the sky, and she wants to pull Baker out of their midst, out of time, and walk with her along the shoreline, following the infinite ocean, nothing moving on the whole green earth except for the two of them and the water and the sky.

It's just us, right?'
Hannah walks to her. She touches her cheek and finds her eyes. There is a desperate light hanging on her pupils. A flicker of passion, a flicker of shame.
'It's just us.

Hannah stomps, buries, suffocates, wishes for death. "Yeah," she says. "I'm good.

Please,' Hannah cries, sitting up on her knees and sobbing to the sky. She chokes, shudders, blinks away the tears. 'Please, either help me or take this away from me. I don't want this anymore.'
But her stormy heart does not settle. Her muscles do not relax. She looks at the stars and wonders why God made them so good, so brilliant, but made her so wrong and broken. Her eyes spill over with tears and her throat burns. She pounds her fists into the earth, into the grass and soil, and emits an animal-like cry from the depths of her body.
'Please,' she sobs, digging her hands into the soil. 'Please.

She thinks about Christ. How she'd like to lay everything down at his feet. "Here you go," she'd say, dropping everything down like a pile of wood. "You gave me this, and I have no idea what to do with it." Then she'd take out a key, a big, clunky, golden key and she'd reach to unlock her heart with it. Her heart would open up and all kinds of wondrous things would come spilling out - maybe rushing forth like a waterfall, or maybe fluttering out gently like a butterfly. "Here it is," she'd tell him. "Everything that's in my heart, for you and me to see.

No one ever told me that it might be different. That it would be okay to be different.

Hannah holds the rose up to her face, but she can't smell anything. 'Awesome,' she says, the word scraping up from some hollow place inside her stomach.