Mad Honey

by Jodi Picoult

Imagine a sorrow so deep that it batters the hatches of sleep; imagine drowning before you even realize you’ve gone under.

We are so lucky to have our children, even for a little while, but we take them for granted. We make the stupid assumption that as long as we are here, they will be, too, though that’s never been part of the contract.

you don’t ever recover from losing someone you love—even the ones you leave behind because you’re better off without them.

People always talk about how their love for you is unconditional. Then you reveal your most private self to them, and you find out how many conditions there are in unconditional love.

It’s hard sometimes not to think that dogs can feel your emotions, the same way deaf people can hear music through the solar plexus.

Is there anyone worth knowing who doesn’t have something about themselves that is theirs, and theirs alone?

I do not know what this world is, but I know that it contains miracles that I cannot explain, and the love that people have for each other is the biggest mystery of all.

It’s inconceivable, if you think about it, the complex ways people have come up with for being horrible to one another.

“Being gay or straight,” says Elizabeth, “is about who you want to go to bed with. Being trans—or cis—is about who you want to go to bed as.”

How similar does someone have to be to you before you remember to see them, first, as human?

Where is the line between keeping something private, and being dishonest?

The secret weapon of mad honey, of course, is that you expect it to be sweet, not deadly. You’re deliberately attracted to it. By the time it messes with your head, with your heart, it’s too late.

“Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.”