Quotes About Connection

They wanted to rock, they wanted to roll, they wanted to feel the peculiarly human feeling of having a perfect night in an imperfect world.

The moon loved them. Not because they were beautiful, or because they were perfect, or because they were perky, but because they were her darling daughters.

Sidda was tired of being vigilant, alert, sharp. She longed for porch friendship, for the sticky, hot sensation of familiar female legs thrown over hers in companionship. She pined for the girlness of it all, the unplanned, improvisational laziness. She wanted to soak the words time management out of her lexicon. She wanted to hand over, to yield, to let herself float down into the uncharted beautiful fertile musky swamp of life, where creativity and eroticism and deep intelligence dwell.

Books are living things with blood and bones, and it breaks our heart when people dissect them.

The notes danced through the June air; Vivi could feel them dust her hair and shoulders. She could feel the notes enter her and settle deep into her bones.

She leaned down and smelled the skin at Connor's shoulders right at the spots where, as Martha Graham might have said, his own wings might have been attached.

Glorious theater. It creates family for all kinds of orphans.

The words shot through Vivi's bones and blood and muscle, and her body relaxed, so that when her feet touched the ground they met the earth differently, as though they had found roots that reached deep down and anchored to something tender and undamaged.

Sidda sank down into the wide flannel embrace of their bodies, and she rested. For a moment she died a little death, they died it together.

She breathed in the vast world of suffering and pure, dark love, and as she did, a well of compassion began to flow in her.

Wade Coenen poured her a glass of brandy. 'Theater,' he said. 'Glorious theater. It creates family for all kinds of orphans.

The point is not knowing another person, or learning to love another person. The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others in our hearts?

the page swiftly. Sidda did not stop to correct herself, or to analyze why she was doing this. She simply glanced at the creekbank photo, sat at the cabin's table, and wrote from the heart. Oh, how Mama and the Ya-Yas laughed! I could hear them from the water where I played with

and I will always have to be careful with each other. She

I danced with her mother on an old wooden floor where rhythm was queen. I danced with her father as he held her mother. I danced with her mother when her belly was big, a sail blown full with the wind. I held her mother as she let go of the earth's pull, as her family did its best to let the sweet dancing mother come home to me.

The happiness in her eyes made my heart hurt.

I had just asked the kids what would have made them feel more loved. But

I was near, even though she couldn't see me. But then I'm always expecting too much from the girl, wanting her to know things she can't

Edythe, I finally say, Why don't you go on back to your bunk and eat your boogers for a midnight snack like you always do at home? Well, that comment really sends my friends, and I'm a big hit. But then I see Edythe's face. It's like something has fallen on it and crumpled it in. Somehow she looks so familiar that I can feel her bones inside my own body. And I start to feel sort of sick. She turns and walks away and

Glorious theater. It creates family for all kinds of orphans. -- Wade Coenen in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

The soul needs the body.

Looking up at her, Teensy said, Any baggage you have, Bébé, ceased to be only yours the minute that sperm hit that egg.

Sidda looked like she could not have been born from my body. This was the first time I ever felt that she was not me: that she was someone else. I didn't like that feeling.

My work expresses an infatuation with human beings. I don't believe that to understand is necessarily to pardon, but I feel that to understand makes one forget that one cannot pardon.