Quotes from Elizabeth Berg

Silence, and then, How old are you? Maddy asks, and Arthur tells her eighty-five. Then he asks her how old she is. Eighteen, she says. Almost. Eighteen. The word is a poem.

This is the way things work sometimes, that good things get ideas from each other, say, well now let's go ahead and let her have it all.

She goes back to bed, turns out the light, and can hear herself start to snore before she falls off into sleep. She doesn't know why so many people hate snoring. She finds it soothing. White noise, with a ruffle.

This is life, uh? We lose something here; we get something there. The trick is to stop looking in the old place to find the new thing.

People who don't feel cared for are not always comfortable being cared for.

He hesitates, then turns and starts up her walk. Gives her a friendly smile, to boot. He wishes she wouldn't wear a wig, or at least not one that sits so crookedly on her head. It's a distraction. Sometimes he has to restrain himself from reaching over and giving it a little tug, then smacking her knee in a friendly way and saying, "There you go!" But why risk humiliating her?

I am in agreement with Goethe, who said that every day one ought to 'hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.' I would add to this the need to love. Without it, the rest is dust.

I once read that Martha Stewart never wears a bathrobe. Not that I like Martha Stewart, nobody likes Martha Stewart, I don't think even Martha Stewart likes Martha Stewart.

It's not that he doesn't smile; it's that if his smile were something you drew, you'd erase it, thinking, Wrong.

It is early morning; outside, the sky is dark and the trees move dramatically in the wind. Soon a storm will come. I want to live to see it. This is the way of nature: to persuade us around one more bend, to beckon us to behold one more vista.

I believe that the souls of women flatten and anchor themselves in times of adversity, lay in for the stay.

It's good for you to be a bit uncomfortable from time to time, especially if you're only a few steps away from relief. People forget about the value of adversity.

I think love is all about risk. And reinvention. And honesty and revelation. And if you don't have that in a relationship, you don't grow, and you don't stay true to what you started together.

Every day, Helen thought, so many people tap the bull on the shoulder and say, Excuse me. I'm just going to grab your horns.

Those who say life is a glorious blessing are right. Those who say it is endlessly cruel are also right.

I think the reason we're cruel sometimes is that we're afraid we're going to like something.

You know what? That woman's pain being greater than yours doesn't make your pain any less. She deserves the best we can offer, and so do you. Now roll over and hike up your johnnie.

No, love is never foolish. Or unnecessary.

What does anyone say to anybody who used to be so important in her life, whom she's not seen in such a long time? It seems to me that in situations like this, we're all wondering the same thing: I'm still me; are you still you? A

It's funny how, oftentimes, the people you love the most are given the least margin for error.

And so, what of it all? What of me and my passions and personas, my great loves and failures of love, my writing, my politics? What of the clanging opinions, the endless queries as to the whys and wherefores of how I chose to conduct myself? In the end, there is but one answer to every question, whether it is spit at me or made as gentlest inquiry: I was I.

What Maddy has come to believe is that certain life circumstances make for people who walk with a psychic limp for all of their days. Never mind the progress they seem to make, peel back a few delicate layers and there it is: a stubborn doubting of worth; an inability to stand with conviction behind anything without wondering if they should be standing there at all; a sense that if they move in this direction, it's wrong; and if they move in that direction, that's wrong, too.

I would try to find joy despite the necessary work of grieving, and I knew full well that work was exactly the right word to describe it. It was John's life that was over, not mine.

I should have said "powder room." That would evoke the image of me sitting before a beautiful gold mirror, a vase of fresh flowers nearby, freshening my makeup, rather than sitting on a toilet.