Quotes from Liane Moriarty

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring; went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning.

How in the world had Bonnie managed to get Madeline's ex-husband out of bed at that time of morning to go to work in a homeless shelter? Nathan wouldn't get up before eight a.m. in the ten years they'd been together. Bonnie must give him organic blow jobs. "Abigail

This type of thing was always happening to John-Paul. Last time he went overseas he'd left his laptop in a cab. The man lost things constantly. Wallets, phones, keys, his wedding ring. His possessions just slid right off him.

None of us ever know all the possible courses our lives could have, and maybe should have, taken. It's probably just as well. Some secrets are meant to stay secret forever. Just ask Pandora.

She'd found socializing with the school mums difficult enough when her life was in perfect order. The chat, chat, chat, the swirls of laughter, the warmth, the friendliness (most mums were so very nice) and the gentle hint of bitchiness that ran beneath it all.

Women always reveal their deepest secrets to each other.

Marriage was a form of insanity; love hovering permanently on the edge of aggravation. Connor would be asleep now, in his neat apartment smelling of garlic and laundry

Such was the paradoxical nature of sibling relationships: they could tease her for the sappiness and spelling of her suicide notes while being terrified she'd write new ones.

One must placate large strange men in the middle of nowhere.

She literally felt twitchy without her phone.

She'd learned that with her daughters. Don't say a word. Don't ask a question. Give them enough time and they'll finally tell you what's on their minds. It was like fishing. It took silence and patience. (Or so she'd heard. Cecilia would rather hammer nails into her forehead than go fishing.) Silence didn't come naturally to her. Cecilia was a talker.

What a load of crap, thought Frances, while simultaneously thinking, Please let it be true.

You suppose you are the trouble But you are the cure You suppose that you are the lock on the door But you are the key that opens it

Jesus. She even knew Liam's name. How was that possible? She'd forgotten her very existence until thirty seconds ago. Liam looked over, aimed his stick straight at Cecilia and pulled the imaginary trigger. "Liam!" said Tess at the same time as Cecilia groaned, clutched her chest and buckled at the knees. She did it so well, for an awful moment Tess worried that she really was collapsing. Liam held the stick up to his mouth, blew on it and grinned, delighted.

Now, for one day every month, she had to fake everything: her basic humanity, her love for her children, her love for Ed. She'd once been appalled to hear of women claiming PMS as a defense for murder. Now she understood. She could happily murder someone today!

People can do what they like in the privacy of their own homes.

Fuck it, maybe she'd even get her hair cut.

Nothing is forever except change.

The moon and stars on her face give her a puckish look.

You don't look sweaty." "I showered," said Bonnie. "But my core body temperature is still quite high." "You'll catch a chill," said Madeline. "No I won't," said

the innate awkwardness of all long-distance phone calls. They were unnatural. You were on opposite sides of the world, at opposite ends of the day, so you couldn't quite synchronize your voices: one person too upbeat, the other too mellow.

She reminded Lars of one of Renoir's women: small-faced and round-eyed with curly hair piled on top of her head, creamy-skinned, plump, and bosomy, possibly a little vacuous,

Great. Now Renata would have even more reason to dislike her. Jane would have an enemy. The last time she had had anything close to an enemy, she was in primary school herself. It had never crossed her mind that sending your child to school would be like going back to school yourself.

if you could float when there was no room, no space anywhere, above, below, when you couldn't take a step without feeling the spongy give of rotting stuff beneath your feet. She