Quotes from M.J. Rose

Perfume is magic. It's mystery. We recreate the smell of a flower. Of wood. Of grass. We capture the essence of life. Liquefy it. We store memories. We make dreams.

The owl," he was saying, "is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?

There is no glory in honesty if it is destructive. And no shame in dishonesty if its goal is to offer grace.

Is there a secret? Yes. Anaïs Nin and Pauline Réage and Anne Rampling and Erica Jong all knew it. E. L. James knows it. It is the secret behind all of our writing. And our reading. Arousal starts in the mind. And grows in the mind. The brain is the most erogenous zone in a woman's body. That is our secret. And it is what we share.

As Oedipus learned, the more you run away from what is predetermined the more you run toward it.

The secret, which is not so secret after all, is that the people who we love live on in our hearts, in the beat of our blood.

Needing someone doesn't make you weak, it makes you feel. And feeling is how you know you're alive. -Jack Reacher

No, the sadness will soften, its edges will become less rough. In time missing him will be the way you love him.

The business of living can steal away the wonder of life.

The one thing I am now sure of is that if there is such a thing as destiny, it is a result of our passion, be that for money, power, or love. Passion, for better or worse. It can keep a soul alive even if all that survives is a shimmering. I've even seen it. I've been bathed in it. I've been changed by it.

We're all broken in one way or another, but it's through the cracks in our souls that the light comes through. And the light, Jenny, that's our art. Now, paint. Paint as if your life depends on it.

if you want to talk to God, it's best to do it where you don't have to shout to have yourself heard.

men are monsters all, and something in them wants to force others to see the world the same way they see it.

The dead live as long as someone who loves them lives.

There are no accidents of fate. Every act has a reaction through lives, through time. Déjà vu and coincidence are God tapping you on the shoulder, telling you to pay attention, showing you that you are walking in the footprint of your own reincarnation.

There's an answer to every question even if it's elusive. The Kabbalah tells us that there's a level of our souls where we all connect to all the world's accumulated knowledge. Jung agreed, just used different words and called it the collective unconscious. It manifests itself in an inner voice we all can hear if we listen deeply enough.

The Kabbalah says if we have not fulfilled our condition during one life, we must commence another... until we have acquired the condition that fits our reunion with God.

Regret isn't like grief; it never lessens, just stays the same. A little hard ball in the pit of your stomach.

Everyone in the tribe believed in life after death and the spirit's ability to be reborn and live again in a new body. The undying soul was unquestioned. Did not the leaves fall off the tree and become part of the soil that nourished the tree which spouted new leaves?

Not a coincidence, but events coming full circle. The infinite possibilities of energy and spirit.

The ancients had instincts and abilities that are lost to civilization today. Magic was real. It lived inside the shamans. Inside the priests. They passed it on from generation to generation. You have the dregs of that power in you. It it not the strength that it was, but you can access it. But to do so you must be willing to travel deep into your own darkness and be open to risk. To pull from the earth's energy.

Spend lavishly on creams. Wash your hair with henna at the first sign of gray. Never spend one minute thinking about what you do not have. And most importantly, indulge in everything but love.

Sometimes love worked out, but more often it failed

Aunt Grace had once told me that we can romanticize the unknown far too easily. It is much harder but more satisfying to assign wonder to what we were familiar with.