The Book of Two Ways

by Jodi Picoult

A sob folds him at the waist. “I love her. I love her to death.” “You love her through death,” I correct gently. “You don’t stop loving someone just because they’re not physically with you.”

“When you’re an artist,” Win says, “it’s because there’s something inside you that you can’t keep from spilling out. Maybe it comes in the form of sentences, or a grand jeté, or a stroke of a paintbrush. The end result can be a million different things. But the seed, it’s always the same. It’s the emotion there isn’t a word for. The feeling that’s too big for your body. To show someone your soul, you have to bleed. People who are comfortable—people who are content—they don’t create art.”

You have the luxury of time, until you don’t—and then it becomes clear what’s most important.”