Reader 1964 > Reader's Quotes

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  • #1
    “Time is a cruel thief to rob us of our former selves. We lose as much to life as we do to death.”
    Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey, A Woman of Independent Means

  • #2
    Sara Nović
    “...I knew in the end the guilt of one side did not prove the innocence of the other.”
    Sara Nović, Girl at War

  • #3
    William Kent Krueger
    “The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.”
    William Kent Krueger, Ordinary Grace

  • #4
    Sarah Strohmeyer
    “I think the only answer is to live life to the fullest while you can and collect memories like fools collect money. Because in the end, that's all you have - happy memories.”
    Sarah Strohmeyer, Kindred Spirits

  • #5
    “The only real treasure is in your head. Memories are better than diamonds and nobody can steal them from you”
    Rodman Philbrick, The Last Book in the Universe

  • #6
    Tana French
    “This country’s passion for property is built into the blood, a current as huge and primal as desire. Centuries of being turned out on the roadside at a landlord’s whim, helpless, teach your bones that everything in life hangs on owning your home.”
    Tana French, The Likeness

  • #7
    Dick Francis
    “Infinite sadness is not to trust an old friend.”
    Dick Francis, Straight

  • #8
    Mary Oliver
    “I, too, have been forced to stand close to it, and have felt the almost muscular agony of impotence before it, unable to interfere or assuage or do anything effective. Though I do—oh yes I do—believe the soul is improvable. Oh sweet and defiant hope! 5”
    Mary Oliver, Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems

  • #9
    Mary Oliver
    “And as with prayer, which is a dipping of oneself toward the light, there is a consequence of attentiveness to the grass itself, and the sky itself, and to the floating bird. I too leave the fret and enclosure of my own life. I too dip myself toward the immeasurable.”
    Mary Oliver, Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems



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