No one could suspect the intricate mysteries of her heart.
He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.
I lived for two years in Odawara, a castle town an hour outside of Tokyo, near the sea. It's a beautiful place, and I drew on my experiences there when writing 'The Lake of Dreams.'
She imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time, and its only renewal came from giving it away.
She didn't love him and he didn't love her; she was like an addiction, and what they were doing had a darkness to it, a weight.
In some deep place in her heart, Caroline had kept alive the silly romantic notion that somehow David Henry had once known her as no one else ever could. But it was not true. He had never even glimpse...
Each letter has a shape, she told them, one shape in the world and no other, and it is your responsibility to make it perfect.
So young, so lonely and naive, that she imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time and its only renewal came from...
Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.
Her voice, high and clear, moved through the leaves, through the sunlight. It splashed onto the gravel, the grass. He imagined the notes falling into the air like stones into water, rippling the invis...
And the distance between them, millimeters only, the space of a breath, opened up and deepened, became a cavern at whose edge he stood.
Anything can happen. But what goes wrong isn’t your fault. You can’t spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around to try and avert disaster. It won’t work. You’ll just end up missing the life you have...
You can't stop time. You can't capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down.
Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.
Music is like you touch the pulse of the world. Music is always happening, and sometimes you get to touch it for a while, and when you do you know that everything's connetcted to everything else.
This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, bui...