Quotes from Kathleen Tessaro

When you are older and have swum out into the stream of life, you'll see - there are no 'good' people, little girl. We're all trying and failing, trying too hard and failing too often. Remember that. We shouldn't judge too harshly, in the end, the sins of others.

He was uncannily skilled at dissecting hidden meaning behind every interaction.

Because happiness isn't made of fun. It's made of solid, real things. It's made of paychecks and clean clothing, and hot food and healthy children, and a man who can look you in the eye when he comes home because he has nothing to hide. It's not so rare. In fact, it's so common people don't notice it. They look for roses when they should be looking for indoor plumbing.

secondhand bookstores have pilgrims. The words out of print are a call to arms for those who seek a Holy Grail made of paper and ink.

Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the nigh as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.

Some day you will have a nemesis,' Madame warned bitterly. 'It's not easy, you know. Someone who has the ability to do everything you wish you could, but with greater ease, style, success.

It's amazing how lonely a place where you were once happy can become.

It was a scent that lacked coyness, made no concessions to charm. Like standing on the edge of a great and terrifying cliff, it was shocking, beautiful, sublime.

What could be more beautiful than the fact that love exists in a random universe?

What would you like to do with it?' he pressed. Grace thought a moment. 'Live, Monsieur Tissot. I'd like to live in great comfort. And peace.' And then she added, quite to her surprise, 'With no one to tell me what to do or how to do it.' He

There is nothing more difficult than simplicity,' Madame added, turning her back on them. 'And therefore, nothing more refined.

Better to go alone than to be badly accompanied. - Madame Dariaux

There was a whole vocabulary of suffering, eloquent in its wordlessness, which gave voice to all the things she couldn't do or say.

There's an art to life. Some people have talent for it. A boundless hope illuminates them. Where others are vague and tentative, they have only sharp, clear edges. Energy soars; lights burn brighter when they enter a room.

Love is self-serving – we do all sorts of things for our own comfort and call it love. But revenge is an intimate thing, don't you think? Would you be willing to enact another person's vengeance?' It was a disturbing manifestation of devotion; one that seeded itself uncomfortably in Grace's imagination.

Aging does that; it makes you amenable to far more ambiguous feelings and opinions than the inflexible black-and-white thinking of youth.

No one had ever advocated her independence before. The entire success of her marriage, her whole career as a woman, depended largely upon her cheerful, uncomplicated dependence, first on her family and then on her husband. But now this stranger was challenging her; asking her to make choices, take responsibility.

Scent memory is incredibly personal; a very private experience.

Over the years Rita had tailored her expectations of life and others accordingly – anticipating the worst at every turn and managing to find the damp, dark potential in any cloudless sky.

Easing back in her seat, Grace watched the children in the playground opposite, coats off, faces flushed, laughing hysterically with pleasure. They were so vividly alive, completely immersed in the game. She tried to recall a time when she'd been that way and realized she couldn't remember when that had been. She'd lost the knack of forgetting herself. Instead she seemed to look down on herself throughout the day, scrutinizing, judging; finding herself wanting more.

I thought I could change my character as easily as I could change my coat. But I've been searching for the right one ever since.

This, Mrs Munroe, is the scent of intoxication and desire. The perfume of seduction.

It could be argued that all perfume is born out of shame; a self-consciousness of our natural odour.

Her eyes were as wide as a nun's in a brothel.