Sidda can’t help herself. She just loves books. Loves the way they feel, the way they smell, loves the black letters marching across the white pages...
She used to say she could taste sleep and that it was as delicious as a BLT on fresh French bread.
I have been to the edge and lived to tell the tale...
Smoke, drink and never think.
But all she wanted to do was lie in bed, eat Kraft macaroni and cheese, and hide from the alligators.
Of all the secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood the most divine was humor.
This is a cardinal Ya-Ya rule: you must meet each person’s eyes while clinking glasses in a toast. Otherwise, the ritual has no meaning, it’s just pure show. And that is something the Ya-Yas are not.
Life is short, but it is wide. Genevieve Whitman taught me that.
Say there is no truth. Say there are only scraps that we feebly try to sew togethr.
It kills me to think I didn’t spot her headed for the rocks. Friends are supposed to act like harbor boats-let you know if you’re off course.
Zip it kiddo. Don’t ever admit you know a thing about cooking or it’ll be used against you later in life.
She leaned down and smelled the skin at Connor’s shoulders right at the spots where, as Martha Graham might have said, his own wings might have been attached.
She breathed in the vast world of suffering and pure, dark love, and as she did, a well of compassion began to flow in her.
Life is short, but wide.
Mama parted with these Divine Secrets because I asked her to, Sidda thought. the reason I feel like crying, Sidda realized, is not just because this scrapbook is vulnerable, but because Mama, whether she knows it or not, has made herself so vulnerable to me.
Maybe people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.
Good enough is good enough. Perfect will make you a big fat mess every time.
You know how some people, when they’re together, they somehow make you feel more hopeful? Make you feel like the world is not the insane place it really is?
Friends are supposed to act like harbor boats-let you know if you’re off course. But it ain’t always possible.
Can you reclaim that free-girl smile, or is it like virginity- once you loose it, that’s it?