More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?
March is such a fickle month. It is the seam between winter and spring—though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand, swinging wildly between January gusts and June greens. You don’t know what you’ll find, until you step outside.
It reminds her of Dorian Gray, time reflected in cowhide instead of human skin.
No, Adeline has decided she would rather be a tree, like Estele. If she must grow roots, she would rather be left to flourish wild instead of pruned, would rather stand alone, allowed to grow beneath the open sky. Better that than firewood, cut down just to burn in someone else’s hearth.
Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget.
Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
The sun is out, fighting for warmth, but the shade still belongs to winter,
“Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way. You cannot leave a mark.”
That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.
The details are simply fading, as all things do, glossing over by degrees, the mind loosening its hold on the past to make way for the future.
