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That he loved Petal, not Wavey, that all the capacity for love in him had burned up in one fast go. The moment had come and the spark ignited, and for some it never went out. For Quoyle, who equated misery with love.
All he felt with Wavey was comfort and a modest joy.

By January it had always been winter.

I doubt a man can bring up two little girls on his own," said Billy Pretty. "I doubt it can be done without some savage talk and nervous breakdowns all around.

It dulls it, the pain I mean. It dulls it because you see your condition is not unique, that other people suffer as you suffer. There must be some kind of truth in the old saying, misery loves company. That it’s easier to die if others around you are dying.

…if the pain is supposed to ease and dull through repetitive confrontation, or if it just persists, as fresh as on the day of the first personal event. I’d say it persists.

At last the end of the world, a wild place that seemed poised on the lip of the abyss. No human sign, nothing, no ship, no plane, no animal, no bird, no bobbing trap marker nor buoy. As though he stood alone on the planet. The immensity of sky roared at him and instinctively he raised his hands to keep it off.

The sharpness of his gaze pierced the past. He saw generations like migrating birds, the bay flecked with ghost sails, the deserted settlements vigorous again, and in the abyss nets spangled with scales.

His aroused senses imbued the far scene with enormous importance. The small figures against the vast rock with the sea beyond. All the complex wires of life were striped out and he could see the structure of life. Nothing but rock and sea, the tiny figures of humans and animals against them for a brief time.

A sweet happy Christmas and New Year story about family! Not as heartbreaking one as I anticipated, but still very heartwarming.

I am positively surprised how this book is more like a humankind history starting from the womb and more philosophical rather than an average parenting book.

Incredible how some authors manage to capture the beautiful magic that is poetical prose.

Deep deep down into the story already.

What he saw in england was a surfeit of parts that would keep the continent of india going for two hundred years.

He had come from a country where mathematics and mechanics were natural traits. Cars were never destroyed. Parts of them were carried across a village and readapted into a sewing machine or water pump. The backseat of a Ford was reupholstered and became a sofa. Most people in his village were more likely to carry a spanner or screwdriver than a pencil.

Aziraphale collected books. If he were totally honest with himself he would have to have admitted that his bookshop was simply somewhere to store them. He was not unusual in this. In order to maintain his cover as a typical second-hand book seller, he used every means short of actual physical violence to prevent customers from making a purchase.

Maybe she had listened through the wall and heard nothing, the stagnant silence of our unhappy house.

Positively impressed!!!

I did not lose myself all at once. I rubbed out my face over the years, washing away my pain, the same way carvings on stone are worn down by water.

Christmas book! Nice!

Trying for the second time!

The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

But to despair was to wish back for something already lost. Or to prolong what was already unbearable.