Quotes from Julie Orringer

The names of the list mean something. Every one. They mean something to me. Everyone means something to someone.

At times, circumstances conspire to make us believe the lies we tell ourselves. Everything- the weather, the season, the fall of light- sets the stage for our play; we find ourselves, instead of acting, becoming the characters, moving into a reality in which we're inseparable from our roles.

It all seemed grossly unfair. He wanted nothing at all to change

Varian sat silent for a moment, his hands between his knees. All my life I've enjoyed perfect privilege, he said. American, rich, Protestant, Harvard-educated. I could walk down the street anywhere and feel, God help me, like a master.

How astounding, Andras thought, that a ship that size could shrink to the size of a house, and then to the size of a car; the size of a desk, a book, a shoe, a walnut, a grain of rice, a grain of sand. How astounding that the largest thing he'd ever seen was still no match for the diminishing effect of distance. It made him aware of his own smallness in the world, his insignificance in the face of what might come, and for a moment his chest felt light with panic.

This is the Centre Americain de Secours. What is more American than wild hope?

But was it cowardice to call out a lie, to insist on truth?

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Judaism offered no Shivah for lost love. There was no Kaddish to say, no candle to burn...no injunction against listening to music or going to work.

It's no small matter to cross an ocean,Chagall said. More can be lost than canvas and paint. An artist must bear witness, Monsieur Fry. He cannot turn away, even if he wished to. An artist cannot bear witness if he's dead.

Willingly Andras followed him into the curved halls of calculus, where the problem of Madame Morgenstern could not exist because it could not be described by an equation.

the lap and luff of the sea on the ash-blue shore.

He grieved too, Klara said, for the loss of a certain idea of himself.

God asks the most of those he loves best.

If we could pin down the moments when our lives bifurcate into before and after-if we could pause the progression of milliseconds, catch ourselves at the point before we slip over the precipice-if we could choose to remain suspended on time-amber, our lives intact, our hearts unbroken, our foreheads unlined, our nights full of undisturbed sleep-would we slip, or would we choose the amber?

Bravo, Monsieur Grant," Breton said, and everyone applauded. "A secret history.

What is left of a woman once her last five pounds are gone?

How astounding that the largest thing he'd ever seen was still no match for the diminishing effect of distance. It made him aware of his own smallness in the world, his insignificance in the face of what might come, and for a moment his chest felt light with panic.

It seemed a miracle that any man who loved a woman might be loved by her in return.

There are moments when the filament of time bends, loops, blurs. The present becomes permeable; the past leaps forward and insists itself upon us without warning. The orderly progression of our days reveals itself to be a lie, and the sense making brain flounders. What was he supposed to call this impossibility that insisted itself before him as reality? A hallucination? Deja vu, that cheap cinematic trick of the mind?

Life, oblivious to his grief, continued

Everything else still unknown. Somehow you have to do it. Somehow you have to survive.

It was what human hands had not brought to the building, and could not remove. It was like love, he thought, this crumbling chapel: It had been complicated, and thereby perfected, by what time had done to it.

Why would a man not argue his own shameful culpability, why would he not crave responsibility for disaster, when the alternative was to feel himself to be nothing more than a speck of human dust?