Quotes from Jean Hanff Korelitz

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards." Kierkegaard said that, and Naomi had always admired the eerie perfection of this simple insight.

Deep inside him, so deep even he would not have known how to excavate it, was the rank, gangrenous fear that he was not entirely the intellectual being he had long ventriloquized.

Miss Saigon from Madam Butterfly. The Hours from Mrs. Dalloway. The Lion King from Hamlet

And it's that impulse to negate our own impressions that is so astonishingly powerful.

Then he would be relegated to the circle of shamed writers forever and without hope of appeal: James Frey, Stephen Glass, Clifford Irving, Greg Mortenson, Jerzy Kosinski Ã¢â'¬Â¦

She knew that she had brought him the very safety and sense of belonging that was so important for a child, but which he had never experienced in his family of origin.

always on the edge of some beautiful redemption.

This was the flaw in making a bargain with yourself. There is no one else there to agree to the terms.

It means: I bow to the divine light within you and you bow to the divine light within me.

The pain between them at this moment is more intimate than anything that has come before. It is also, incidentally, more intimate than anything she has shared with her fiancé. It is devastating.

What happened to perfectly capable kids who'd been so bombarded with help that they felt helpless to do anything on their own? Or the kids who'd been so driven at home, they'd never had to find their own drive? It couldn't be good, she thought.

But we can't really do anything about what they say when we leave the room. We'll never be able to control that. And we shouldn't try. Our job is just to…well, be in the room while we're there, and try not to think too much about where we're not. Whatever room we happen to be in, just, be there

Good writers borrow, great writers steal, Jake was thinking.

I'll tell you," says Oliver, "when I know you better.

So tell me now. Please. Is there anything you've heard today, or anything in your life, your character, that would prevent you from being the open-minded jurors we need you to be?

You know," Sybylla said warmly, "it isn't such a terrible thing to be incapable of open-mindedness. All of us are swayed by our experiences, and by prejudices. If the school bully who beat you up had red hair, then maybe there's a tiny part of you that resents people with red hair, even though you may know this to be irrational.

This is my client Trent. I'm going to defend him vigorously, because that's my job. When he looks at you today, he has to see a group of people who are willing to be fair and impartial. Please think about those words—fair and impartial. Because, believe me, if it were you in this chair, or your mother, or your child, you'd be as desperate to have fair and impartial jurors as he is right now.

Brooklyn Heights, where a frankly socialist ethos stood in bald contrast to soaring tuition

But the goodness in the letter affected her now, and it occurred to her, not for the first time, that Mark had always saved the best of himself for the people he dealt with in his professional life, though perhaps—and this did strike her for the first time—she had done that as well.

What kind of protest declines dialogue with its opponent?" "A modern one," Francine said dryly. "These kids are not like we were. You were," she corrected. "Interaction across the battle lines isn't what they're after. They want to build their own constituencies. They want to represent something to their peers more than they want to gain respect from their opponents.

Or accomplish anything," Naomi said, rolling her eyes. "Oh, they're accomplishing plenty. They're compiling influence. They're emerging from the crowd." "Gaining 'likes.' Getting 'retweeted.'" "That's part of it. No point denying it." "Building their brands. Getting famous.

I remembered the room, on the third floor, which had a massive four-poster bed (this had also, apparently, come with the house; I could hardly imagine getting it in or out!)

But there was an unfortunate complication, namely that her mother and father were Christians, and not the Jesus-is-love kind of Christians but the Hell-has-a-special-room-waiting-for-you kind.

The answer was no longer of any concern, only its attendant truth, which she'd figured out years ago and had never once questioned: her mother loathed her, and probably always had. What was she supposed to do with such information? Exactly.