Dead Letters From Paradise Quotes

“Van Buren, Davina. “A Medicinal Masterpiece.” Visit Winston-Salem, November 23, 2018”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Lovejoy, Bess. “Patti Lyle Collins, Super-Sleuth of the Dead Letter Office.” Mental Floss, Aug. 25, 2015”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Hughes, Kathryn. “George Eliot’s Women.” The British Library, May 15, 2014”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Grant-Hill, Cathy. “The Balcony Is Closed: The Only Remains of the Carolina Theater’s Third-Floor Segregated Balcony are a Tossed-Aside Old Sign, and Local People’s Memories.” Greensboro.com, Feb. 12, 2020”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Ingredients 1.25 oz Old Overholt Rye 1 oz Campari 1 oz sweet vermouth orange peel Steps (1) Combine Old Overholt Rye, Campari, and sweet vermouth with ice in a cocktail beaker and stir until well-chilled. (2) Strain into a martini glass (3) Garnish with orange peel. (4) Drink and repeat.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“But I shall hasten to thank you just the same for awakening within me the ability to recognize beauty, and once again, to allow my heart to experience the gentle stirrings of desire.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“No matter how many bombs we built, treaties we broke, or natural resources we squandered, the earth remembered—and always honored its commitments.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“It’s about time you and I split a dessert in public, instead of down here in this damn basement.” I told her I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do. “Don’t get too excited, Esther Jane,” she told me. “Bad pie is still bad pie, no matter where you get to sit down and eat it.” I told her to hush, and just for once—to try and enjoy the moment.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“But I was learning something about loss . . . and regret. About the death of hope, and the probability that both Beatrice and I would live out our days alone—tending our patches of bitter herbs in gardens that would forever be divided by fate, geography, and the capricious whims of history.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“thought immediately about Dorothea . . . about Beatrice . . . and what she’d been forced to give up—even though I didn’t know the circumstances that had led to her great loss. And that led me to think about myself, and the enormity of what I was poised to give up, without ever having had it.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Sure.” I said. “If we’re going to have an in-depth discussion about depictions of homosexual relationships in popular fiction, we might as well grease the skids.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“provided, and do our part to make them better for the next generation.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Looking out across my front yard toward the simple majesty of the old St. Philip’s African Moravian Church, I was reminded of the impermanence of life—but also the staying power of faith and love. Those things abided long after we’d departed these lives. We were only tenants of God’s creation. Stewards, actually. Our job was simple: care for the things He’d”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“He flashed me that million-dollar smile of his—the one that made me believe every good thing in life was possible if only we did right, worked hard, and never lost faith in the grace of God.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Sorry, EJ,” she apologized. “I love Barbara Stanwyck. She always looks so … formidable.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Inger Stevens.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“They eat cake in church?” Harrie asked in amazement. “We never got cake at Speedwell Baptist Church.” Harrie sat lost in thought. I assumed she was rethinking the apparent wasteland of her cake-less religious upbringing.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“I think many small towns have those kinds of annual celebrations. Sometimes, they’re called Founder’s Days, to commemorate the date the town was actually started.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“She’d chattered away on the ride across town, striking up a lively conversation with the driver and querying him about how many people he reckoned missed the slot when they tossed their coins into the fare bin. I assumed she was hoping that our trips to Union Station might result in a new revenue stream for her.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“even offered her my copy of The Price of Salt. I was sure that one would distract her—and in some pretty happy ways, too.” I was unfamiliar with the title. “What is that book about?” I inquired. Fay Marian and Inez exchanged glances. “It’s rather eclectic,” Inez explained. “A romance by a British author named Claire Morgan.” “You should read it, EJ,” Fay Marian offered.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“That was a lot to go through. Do you want to talk about it with me?” Harrie took her time thinking it over. “Okay,” she said. “But can I get another one of these if I do?” She held up her mug. “Of course. You can have as many as you want.” “Good.” She sighed and shook her tousled head. “You know, Eej, some things in life just take more’n one Postum.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“told her that I was choosing to remain more hopeful. “If the Negro community has a voice in the discussions, the outcome might be better for everyone.” “You did say it was twenty men, right?” “Yes.” “So let me ask you, when was the last time a group of men—no matter what color they are—has ever done anything to make life better for us?”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“Don’t be givin’ me that Camp Fire Girls look of yours,” she declared impatiently. “This here is a merit badge you’re gonna have to work for.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise

“There it was: that same heady scent of bergamot, jasmine and vanilla. I checked each letter in turn. They all carried the same whisper of fragrance.”
― Ann McMan, Dead Letters from Paradise