Quotes About Change

For the first time in her career, the tragedy of it all was nearly unbearable. It wasn't worse here than where she'd been before. That wasn't it. The situation hadn't changed. She had. She carried grief with her everywhere, and the burden of it made compartmentalization impossible.

You know the thing about history, Elsa? It's over. Already dead and gone." "They say people who don't heed history are doomed to repeat it." "Who says that? I ain't never heard it. I say folks who hang on to the past miss their chance for a future.

If nothing else, this pause has given me that: a lens through which to view my previous life. It's not forgiveness. Not even near that yet, but it is … acceptance, and that's better than nothing.

For the first time, her romantic novels made sense; she realized that the landscape of a woman's soul could change as quickly as a world at war.

All my life I've been told to make no noise, don't want too much, be grateful for any scrap that came my way. And I've done that. I thought if I just did what women are supposed to do and played by the rules, it would Ã¢â'¬Â¦ I don't know Ã¢â'¬Â¦ change. But the way we're treated…" "It's unfair," he said. "It's wrong," she said. "This

She hadn't known until now how love could erupt into existence like the big bang theory and change everything in you and everything in the world.

Ah, Elsa. You got a wrong picture of yourself." "Even if that is true, what does a person do about it? The things your parents say and the things your husband doesn't say become a mirror, don't they? You see yourself as they see you, and no mater how far you come, you bring that mirror with you." "Break it", Jean said. "How?" "With a gosh dang rock." Jean leaned forward. "I'm a mirror too, Elsa. You remember that.

The true voyage of self-discovery lies not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. —MARCEL PROUST

Life was like that, full of quicksilver changes. Joy reappeared as unexpectedly as sunlight

Some years June is spring, July is summer, August is autumn, and everything else is winter.

In the years that she had been tying scraps to the branches, the tree had died and the fruit had turned bitter. The other apple trees were hale and healthy, but this one, the tree of her remembrances, was as black and twisted as the bombed-out town behind it.

She wanted to pray, but her faith felt far away, the remnant of another woman's life.

The truth is, I knew loss. I didn't know grief. Now, I do.

In real life, she saw, it wasn't like that. It was sadness opening up inside of you, changing how you saw the world.

That evening, after dinner, Leni sat on her twin bed, reading. The Stand by Stephen King. In the past week, she'd read three books by him and discovered a new passion. Goodbye science fiction and fantasy, hello horror. She figured it was a reflection of her inner life. She'd rather have nightmares about Randall Flagg or Carrie or Jack Torrance than about her own past.

That was the sly, ruinous thing about motherhood, the thing that twisted your insides with guilt and made you change your mind and lower your standards: giving in was so damned easy. It

Five words to change a world, to dissolve the ground beneath a woman's feet. It was a tidal wave, that sentence, whooshing in without warning, undermining foundations, leaving homes crumbled in the aftermath.

I know I won't be able to stand on the edge of intimacy. Sooner or later, I will have to dive into those cold, deep waters, and there is no end to the ripples my entrance will make. I

I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.

One kiss can change a girl's world.

But you knew, or should know, that it was a wild thing you lived with, that a collar and leash and a bowl of food might tame the actions of the beast, but couldn't change its essential nature.

The father who went off to war was not the one who came home. She had tried to be loved by him; more important, she had tried to keep loving him, but in the end, one was as impossible as the other. In

How will I stop loving him, Mama? Will I Ã¢â'¬Â¦ forget?" Mama sighed. "Ah. That. Love doesn't fade or die, baby girl. People tell you it does, but it doesn't. If you love him now, you'll love him in ten years and in forty. Differently, maybe, a faded version, but he's part of you now. And you are part of him.

she realized that the landscape of a woman's soul could change as quickly as a world at war.