Quotes from Kristin Hannah

Men tell stories. Women get on with it.

But this new emotion…this feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd been a bad person, that he'd hurt his brother deeply and known it and never bothered to make it right…

Isabelle knew the volume. Les Fleurs du mal. The Flowers of Evil. It was the book they used to signal a meeting. "I am looking for something else by this author," Anouk said, exhaling smoke. "I am sorry, Madame. I have no more Baudelaire. Some Verlaine, perhaps? Or Rimbaud?

how you used to sit cross-legged in your room, with your eyes closed, trying to levitate your toys when Lottie made you clean your room.

and a pronounced chin and deep-set gray

I just want to keep you safe. I smile. Americans can be so naive.

You have the heart of a lion.

sometimes love was a choice. Like the tide, it could ebb and flow, and there were slack-tide times when a woman had nothing to believe in except a memory, nothing to cling to except the choice she'd made a long time ago.

room and went into her father's—which was

Apparently you couldn't stop loving some people, or needing their love, even when you knew better.

You think you have to hold it all in, and if you let any of it go, you'll shatter into tiny pieces and you won't know who you are. But it doesn't work that way. It's more like…opening your eyes in a room you'd expected to be dark. You can see things, and it makes you feel stronger.

way. As usual, Conny was dressed in baggy pink scrubs and his gray dreadlocks swung with every step, sort of like the alien in Predator.

In literature, death was many things--- a message, catharsis, retribution. Death made you cry, filled you with sadness, but in the best of her books, there was peace, too, satisfaction, a sense of the story ending as it should. In real life, she saw, it wasn't like that. It was sadness opening up inside you, changing how you saw the world.

Yo procedo de una generación más reservada. Comprendemos el valor de olvidar, el aliciente de reinventarnos.

Happiness was a choice she knew how to make.

You are the daughter I always wanted," Rose said. "Ti amo." "And you are my mother," Elsa said. "You saved me, you know." "Mothers and daughters. We save each other, sì?

The man who'd come home from war was not the same man who'd boarded the plane for Vietnam.

Now, though, she wondered what her life could possibly be. She couldn't go back to who she'd been, but how could she go forward

Rachel, as tall as the boys, with eyebrows that grew faster than a lie and a voice like a foghorn.

That box there. The empty one. Separate the Jews born in France from those born elsewhere. We are only interested in foreign-born Jews. Men, women, and children." "Why?" "They're Jews. Who cares? Now get to work.

A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep in her bones.

Así que ahora elegimos ver milagros.

Crees que tienes todo el tiempo del mundo, hasta que te das cuenta de que no es así.

This book is dedicated to "us." The girls. Friends who see one another through the hard times, big and small, year in and year out. You know who you are. Thanks;