Quotes About Connection

Before she realized he was next to her, he had placed his hands over hers on the countertop, then hooped his fingers through hers. Gretel looked up at him, so startled she might as well have been shot. 'I just wanted to wake you up', he said. Which is exactly what he did. One look at him and her heart was racing. One look, and whatever had been before was all over.

They may be nothing like you, he had written, they may surprise you, they may even repel you when their behavior is out of control, when they climb out their windows and drink underage and break every rule, but you will love them in a way you had not thought possible before, no matter who they turn out to be.

She doesn't have a mother anymore. There's no one to whom she's the most important person in the world.

Don't waste time when there's someone you love.

Our house was littered with books- in the kitchen, under the beds, stuck between the couch pillows--far too many for her the ever finish. I suppose I thought if my grandmother kept up her interests, she wouldn't die; she'd have to stay around to finish the books she was so fond of. I've got to get to the bottom of this one, she'd say, as if a book were no different from a pond or a lake. I thought she'd go on reading forever but it didn't work out that way.

He fell in love with the way she closed her eyes, long before he fell in love with her.

In my family, a book can be a life raft.

My mother, Abra, had taught me that all people are made from the same dust. When our days here are gone, all men and women enter the same garden.

It was true, when you saved someone, they belonged to you in some small way, but it was also true that you belonged to them. They would stay with you and enter into your dreams and your thoughts, as you would enter into theirs.

I wasn't quite as certain that I knew her soul. When it came right down to it, I wasn't sure she knew me either.

I only had access to him when we were together in the library, and I loved them both -the library and my father- equally and without question.

She had lost some of who she was when she lost her beloved.

She had been grief stricken as her father lay dying but now she felt weightless, the way people do when they're no longer sure they have a reason to be connected to this world. The slightest breeze could have carried her away, into the night sky, across the universe.

The sisters were glad to be together. They had the easy sort of relationship where they didn't have to speak to be understood.

When people related by blood were so careful with each other, when they were so very polite, there was soon nothing left to say. Only niceties that meant so little they might as well have been spoken to a complete stranger. Pass the butter, open the door, see you after school, there's rain again, it's sunny, it's cold. Has the dog eaten? Has the window been shut? Where are you going? Why is it I don't know you at all? Such statements did not add up to anything like a family...

There are none who can fight as fiercely as a mother and a daughter, and none who can forgive more completely.

He's nothing fierce or terrible or filled with light. He's like us, sometimes we can't even tell him apart. Sometimes we're the ones who try to save him. He's there to show us who we are. Human beings aren't gods. We makes mistakes.

What you send out comes back to you threefold. What you give to the world returns in kind. Blood begets blood.

But can you measure someone's love? I want to know. You think you can measure love? She's kind not to laugh at me...No scale would be strong enough, she tells me. It would break to pieces under the weight.

He realized how little he knew of this world, but he knew this: If you could love someone, you possessed a soul.

My theory is that everyone at one time or another has been at the fringe of society in some way: an outcast in high school, a stranger in a foreign country, the best at something, the worst at something, the one who's different. Being an outsider is the one thing we all have in common.

A writer is, after all, only half his book. The other half is the reader and from the reader the writer learns.

Men and women rarely speak to each other, though they often talk.

Love has nothing to do with time or space.