Quotes from Charles Martin

When light walks into a room, the darkness rolls back like a scroll." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "It has to. Darkness can't stand light. And it has no counter for it.

Indifference is the curse of this age. We need to hear that. Indifference is evil, and it could not be further from the heart of God.

You can choose that if you want, or you can realize that we are all just broken, and sometimes no matter how hard we try and no matter what we do, people just don't love us back.' He

Out of the mouth of babes you have perfected praise so that you might silence the enemy and the avenger.

Indifference is the curse of this age. We need to hear that. Indifference is evil, and it could not be further from the heart of God. Don't think so? Let me point you to the Cross. Hanging there, Jesus was anything but indifferent.

Don't let that girl slip away." A single shake. "Lonely is no way to live." He tapped me on the chest. "And you been lonely since the moment I met you.

Este es el amor con las piernas." She then translated without being asked. "'This is love with legs.' My father used to say that you can tell someone you love them until you're blue in the face, but until they see that walked out, they have no idea what it means. Hence, 'love with legs.

We, all of us, have been affected by war, hurricanes, drought, economic hardship. The result is a disease—an epidemic—called 'hopelessness.' It's carried on the air around here, and I am fighting it." My

You hang around people long enough and you learn their tells. Pain has a way of exiting the body, and most will let you know when it's on its way out. Seldom do they know what their "tell" is telling you. Most often it's silent. Sometimes it can be loud. However it comes out, it leaves a trail. Jittery fingers. Itchy skin. Headaches. Always tired. Always hungry. There are hundreds, I guess.

During the months preceding the trial

Man, or woman, is not made to be worshiped. We are not physically cut out for it. Life in the spotlight, on the pedestal, at the top of the world was a lonely, singular, desolate, soul-killing place.

The people who are really thirsty aren't going to church on Sunday. They're driving around this lake, running from their secrets, looking for a good, quiet, fill-your-stomach place to eat.

Lord, You're the only one here who knows what You're doing, so we ask that You come hang out with us a bit. Be the guest of honor at this table. Fill our conversations, our time, and our hearts. For"—Charlie pointed his voice in my direction—" they are the wellspring of life.

People believe what they read until someone prints something that contradicts it. Then they believe both.

or does, he still can." He tapped the lid of the jar. "If God can make a firefly's butt light up like a star, then anything is possible.

In a rather inexplicable phenomenon, music makes up a small part of the frequency of waves we see with our eyes. That's right, music and light are part of the same spectrum. It's just that we hear part of that spectrum, suggesting that the angels both hear and see light, which adds a whole new dimension to the idea of daybreak, high noon, or sundown.

Greatest trick ever played on mankind is that somewhere, somebody sold us a bill of goods convincing us that evil ain't real." I

All hearts have but one request. One simple, unspoken, undeniable need. One undeniable fear. To be known. You can stamp it out. Kill it. Box it up and hem it in. Numb it and close the door. Bury it and nail it shut. Encase it in stone. But eventually, the needs of the heart will tear the door off the hinges, unearth it, and crack the stone. No prison ever built could house it. Those of us who think we can are lying to ourselves. And those next to us. Hope never dies.

every day, no matter what I'd painted the day before, I got a new canvas, washed white. 'Cause each night the tide rolled in, scrubbed it clean, and receded, taking the stains with it.

Something in the hardwiring of her heart felt with acute sharpness what others felt. If you cried, tears dripped down her face. If you laughed, the ends of her mouth turned upward. It was both her greatest strength and deepest weakness.

In school, I sat in the back, seldom raising my hand and never raising my voice. But the absence of verbal expression did not mean I was dull to the needs of others. Didn't mean I couldn't think and feel. Didn't absorb. I thought and felt just fine. Absorbed like a sponge. My peripheral vision was twenty-ten. I cried when strangers hurt. Laughed when others smiled.

There, on that bank, soaked in that water, basking in that sun-shine, lying on that man's chest, I hoped for the first time that my real dad would never show up and take me home.

She curled my hand into a fist and showed it to me. "Life is a battle, but you can't fight it with your fists." She gently tapped me on the chin with my fist and then put her hand on my chest. "You got to fight it with your heart." She pulled me back to her chest and sucked through her teeth like she was trying to pick the corn out with her tongue. "If your knuckles are bloodier than your knees, then you're fighting the wrong battle.

A lot of dead writers feed my mind with their ever-present whisperings. I