Presenting me with a ring box, in which, instead of a ring, were a dozen old library cards—a symbol for love that could be borrowed, perhaps, but never kept.
Unrequited love is the best kind. But I can tell you with certainty, Robbie, that the other kind of love, the kind I received from your father for more than two decades, is far more necessary.
Walking into oblivion to claim love.
If I expected to be forgiven myself, I would have to forgive indiscriminately from now on. I
A moment’s friction for a life in which I would never again be free of my own body.
At nine, she had begun to see a truer picture of me than Polly could. She had begun to see what I saw—not beauty, but imperfections. I let her pull away from me.
Confessions. For whose benefit besides one’s own? T
Confessions. For whose benefit besides one’s own?
Hope doesn’t like to be beaten down, though, does it? Hope is what gets us through. Hope, and the prayer it wants to become.
I came face-to-face with the unwelcome finality of death. What can you do with it? It stops you cold when you think of it; it leaves you no out.
I closed my eyes. I dragged the memory of that day out of the darkness of time. I stepped through it, in my head, blurred image by blurred image, until finally, I saw it.
I did not feel lonely, but I felt the memory of loneliness.
They say the human body can lose 50 percent of its body parts and survive. But it depends on which parts, and which body.
If, when I looked, I was not perfect, how could I be beautiful? And if I was not beautiful, how could I be loved?
It is upon the rubble of ancient history that today stands
It was pleasure derived not from parental pride, but from gratitude. We had been blessed by the existence on this earth of our three particular children, and we had been assigned a blessed task in kee...
She let me go. Not that she could have stopped me. Children will end up a world away, whether you want them to or not—unaware of the havoc being wreaked upon their histories back home.
She moved across the pool deck with a languor, an unabashed sexual energy that made me feel like I was watching porn.
Somebody said—some poet, I can’t remember which one—that unrequited love is the best kind. But I can tell you with certainty, Robbie, that the other kind of love, the kind I received from your father...
Standing there, I came face-to-face with the unwelcome finality of death. What can you do with it? It stops you cold when you think of it; it leaves you no out.
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