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Most of the books were hardbacks, recent bestsellers by Danielle Steel, Diane Chamberlain, and the much-lauded king of “ugly cry” novels, Hugh Garret.
Back then, she’d had no frame of reference for that kind of anguish, the kind that imprinted itself on the body, etched itself into the soul.
“Books are like people, Ashlyn. They absorb what’s in the air around them. Smoke. Grease. Mold spores. Why not feelings? They’re as real as all those other things. There’s nothing more personal than a book, especially one that’s become an important part of someone’s life.”
“Books are feelings,” he replied simply. “They exist to make us feel. To connect us to what’s inside, sometimes to things we don’t even know are there. It only makes
Dearest, Honor isn’t about blood or a name. It’s about being brave and standing up for what’s right. You, my love, have always chosen honorably. Of that, you may always be proud, just as I am proud of the man I married. —Catherine
“I think a woman belongs in whatever business she chooses, so long as it’s respectable.
“Women aren’t usually consulted on wars. We send our husbands and brothers and sweethearts to do the dying, hold the pieces together while they’re gone, then pick up what’s left when they come home—if they come home—but we’re seldom asked what we think.”
“You can’t be timid about things. You have to jump right in and get dirty. Wouldn’t you agree?”
We read not to escape life but to learn how to live it more deeply and richly, to experience the world through the eyes of the other.
It was cold and cutting, like a January wind, and strangely . . . bloodless. It was an odd way to describe anger, which usually registered as hot and sharp, like a slap. But there was no heat here, only a blue-white conflagration that felt like fire but wasn’t. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t anger she was picking up. It was despair. A void so deep, so achingly familiar, it made her throat clench.
