Eleanor Brown Quotes

There are times in our lives when we have to realize our past is precisely what it is, and we cannot change it. But we can change the story we tell ourselves about it, and by doing that, we can change the future.

She remembered one of her boyfriends asking, offhandedly, how many books she read in a year. "A few hundred," she said. "How do you have the time?" he asked, gobsmacked. She narrowed her eyes and considered the array of potential answers in front of her. Because I don't spend hours flipping through cable complaining there's nothing on? Because my entire Sunday is not eaten up with pre-game, in-game, and post-game talking heads? Because I do not spend every night drinking overpriced beer and engaging in dick-swinging contests with the other financirati? Because when I am waiting in line, at the gym, on the train, eating lunch, I am not complaining about the wait/staring into space/admiring myself in reflective surfaces? I am reading! "I don't know," she said, shrugging.

There is no problem that a library card can't solve.

I keep waiting to feel old, to feel like a grown-up, but I don't yet. Do you think that's the big secret adults keep from you? That you never feel like a grown-up?

Instead, we'd do what we always did, the only thing we'd ever been dependably stellar at: we'd read.

Not me, of course, as I am now officially a spinster librarian and must stay home with my cat and drink tea.

What I mean is, I still feel like me. It's not like I wake up and think, I am a responsible adult. I just look in the mirror and see myself. the same stupid person I've been looking at for years.

She never managed to find herself in these books no matter how hard she tried, exhuming traits from between the pages and donning them for an hour, a day, a week. We think in some ways, we have all done this our whole lives, searching for the book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let. As though we could walk in and look around and say to the gray-haired landlady behind us, "We'll take it.

Oh honey, we’re all fuckups in our own special ways.

I'm not sure if it's better to be alone but it's probably safer.

Despite his money and his looks and all the good-on-paper attributes he possessed, he was not a reader, and, well, let's just say that is the sort of nonsense up with which we will not put.

This conversation, you will not be surprised to know, was the impetus for their breakup, given that it caused her to realize the emotion that she had thought was her not liking him very much was, in fact, her not liking him at all. Because despite his money and his looks and all the good-on-paper attributes he possessed, he was not a reader, and, well, let's just say that is the sort of nonsense up with which we will not put.

we all have stories we tell ourselves. We tell ourselves we are too fat, too ugly, or too old, or too foolish. We tell ourselves these stories because they allow us to excuse our actions, and they allow us to pass off the responsibility for things we have done-maybe to something within our control, but anything other than the decisions we have made.

The question to ask is what will satisfy you? What will bring you peace? And perhaps the answer to those is in asking yourself when you were last happy.

I have loved this disaster of a library since I was old enough to read.

Long ago she had thought bravery equaled wandering, the power was in the journey. Now she knew that, for her, it took no courage to leave; strength came from returning. Strength lay in staying.

We were never organized readers who would see a book through to its end in any sory of logical order. We weave in and out of words like tourists on a hop-on, hop-off bus tour. Put a book down in the kitchen to go to the bathroom and you might return to find it gone, replaced by another of equal interest. We are indiscriminate.

Sisters keep secrets. Because sisters' secrets are swords.

The wanderlust crept up again inside her like a shooting star, a sudden, violent urge to escape disappearing into darkness again. She pushed down the afterglow and focused.

How old were you when you first realized that your parents were human? That they were not omnipotent, that what they said did not, in fact, go, they had dreams and feelings and scars? Or have you not realized that yet?Do you still call your parents and have a one-sided conversation with them, child to parent, not adult to adult?

Forgetting wasn’t the same as being happy. Being drunk wasn’t the same as forgetting … we were at our most miserable when we’re doing it to ourselves.

Our destiny is in the way we were born, in the way we were raised, in the sum of the three of us.

You're great but you're not there when I go to bed at night or get up in the morning. You don't make me a cup of tea after a hard day at work, or rub my back in the bath. I'm sick of being lonely. Is that so wrong? 

His eyes were light brown. They were light brown in the way that a rose is red, or that the sky is blue. They defined what it meant to be light brown.

Our estrangement is not drama-laden- we have not betrayed one another's trust, we have not stolen lovers or fought over money or property or any of the things that irreparably break families apart. The answer, for us, is much simpler. See, we love one another. We just don't happen to like one another very much.

We wear our names heavily. And though we have tried to escape their influence, they have seeped into us, and we find ourselves living their patterns again and again.

These were the kind [of letters] you save, folded into a memory box, to be opened years later with fingers against crackling age, heart pounding with the sick desire to be possessed by memory.

He had the singular ability to knock down her carefully bricked defenses, which was a compliment to them both and the secret to their love.

The library drew Bean down the street, as it had drawn all of us over the years. Our parents had trained us to become readers, and the town’s library had been the one place, other than church, that we visited every week.

Imagine what could happen if we all had the heart to be who we truly are.

I’m just like this speed bump in the middle, slowing everyone down because I keep fucking up.

she wondered how she could have spent all that money and have nothing but clothes and accessories and a long list of men she never wanted to see again to show for it

Yes, you'd make a great partner for him. What with the embezzling and the adultery and the drinking. That's what every man wants in a wife - a vaguely alcoholic, fornicating thief.

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” he said softly. “My vision is better.

She remembered one of her boyfriends asking, offhandedly, how many books she read in a year. "A few hundred," she said. "How do you have the time?" he asked, gobsmacked. She narrowed her eyes and considered the array of potential answers in front of her. Because I don't spend hours flipping through cable complaining there's nothing on?

We don't just come from the womb bearing our talents. They grow from all the things we learn.

We think, in some ways, we have all done this our whole lives, searching for the book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let. As though we could walk in and look around and say to the gray-haired landlady behind us, "We'll take it.

We all have stories we tell ourselves. We tell ourselves we are too fat, or too ugly, or too old, or too foolish. We tell ourselves these stories because they allow us to excuse our actions, and they allow us to pass off the responsibility for things we have done - maybe to something within our control, but anything other than the decisions we have made...And it is past time, I think, for you to stop telling that particular story, and tell the story of yourself. Stop defining yourself in terms of them. You don't just have to exist in the empty spaces they leave. There are times in our lives when we have to realize our past is precisely what it is, and we cannot change it. But we can change the story we tell ourselves about it, and by doing that, we can change the future.

In this age of one-night stands, virtual relationships and text sex, a wedding was a modern miracle.

we came home because we were failures

Being with you is as easy as being alone.

But the truth was, we had failed, and rather than let anyone else know, we crafted careful excuses and alibis, and wrapped them around ourselves like a cloak to keep out the cold truth.

Fa' ogni giorno una cosa che ti spaventa" disse mamma. "Eleanor Roosevelt

See, we love one another. We just don't happen to like one another very much.

She had gone from most favored nation to useless ally, from Cordelia to Ophelia.

How different her mother’s world was from hers. How different our mothers’ worlds are from all of ours.

Cordy slept late, awakening only when the noises of the house and the insistent sunlight became to obvious to be believably incorporated into her dreams any longer.

He rubs his forehead, frustrated, then raises his eyes, one dark brown, one gray-blue—the

She did not want him. Had she ever? It is so easy to look at love when it is over and think it was never real.

Bean felt a rush of sweet nostalgia for the woman who had introduced us to E. Nesbit and Edward Eager and Laura Ingalls Wilder...

There is nothing that isn't beautiful about bread.

My hair was mousy brown, parted in the center, straight and not particularly thick. Human hair, doing what human hair does: growing on my head.

Self-care is not selfish. You cannot serve from an empty vessel

Our parents' love is not some grand passion, there are no swoons of lust, no ball gowns and tuxedos, but here is the truth: they have not spent a night apart since the day they married. How can we ever hope to find a love to live up to that?

We've all done foolish, foolish things, dear. In my experience, good people punish themselves far more than any external body can manage. And I believe you are a good person. You may have lost your way more than a little bit, but I believe you can find your way back. That's the trick. Finding your way back.

...after our weekly trip to the library, she cleared the top of her dresser and set out her week's reading, stood them on their ends, pages fanned out, sending little puffs of text into the air.

There is nothing that is not beautiful about bread. The way it grows, from tiny grains, from bowls on the counter, from yeast blooming in a measuring cup like swampy islands. The way it fills a room, a house, a building, with its inimitable smells, submits to a firmly applied fist and contracts, swells again; the way it stretches and expands upon kneading, the warm, supple feel of it against skin. The sight of a warm roll on a table, the taste-sweet, sour, yeasty on the tongue.

You're only significant relationship of the last decade has been with a married man. Don't you want to be loved, don't you want someone to care about you, to actually give a shit about whether you've had a bad day?

We think, in some ways, we have all done this our whole lives, searching for the book that will give us the keys to ourselves, let us into a wholly formed personality as though it were a furnished room to let. As though we could walk in and look around and say to the gray-haired landlady behind us, "We'll take it.

There is much made in the psychological literature of the effects of divorce on children, particularly as it comes to their own marriages, lo those many years later. We have always wondered why there is not more research done on the children of happy marriages. Our parents' love is not some grand passion, there are no swoons of lust, no ball gowns and tuxedos, but here is the truth: they have not spent a night apart since the day they married. How can we ever hope to find a love to live up to that?

But Rose learned an important lesson: people don't always do what you tell them to do.

We came home because we were failures … we crafted careful excuses and alibis, and wrapped them around ourselves like a cloak to keep out the cold truth.

If I want a man I'll go to a cheap bar, like any other sane woman. I, for one, haven't hit rock bottom.

...his eyes were exactly the color of that gleaming golden-brown moss you see on stones under the clear water of running brooks.

We all have stories we tell ourselves. We tell ourselves we are too fat, or too ugly, or too old, or too foolish. We tell ourselves these stories because they allow us to excuse our actions and they allow us to pass off the responsibilities for things we have done, maybe for something within our control, but anything other than the decisions we have made. . . There are times in our lives that we have to realize that our past is precisely what it is and we cannot change it. But we can change the story we tell ourselves about it, and by doing that, we can change the future.

Because despite his money and his looks and all the good-on-paper attributes he possessed, he was not a reader, and, well, let’s just say that is the sort of nonsense up with which we will not put.

But this man Brown - it was difficult to place him at once. He talked, spreading his fingers out with the volubility of a man who will in the end become a bore. And Eleanor wandered about, holding a cup, telling people about her shower-bath. He wished they would stick to he point. Talk interested him. Serious talk on abstract subjects. 'Was solitude good; was society bad?' That was interesting; but they hopped from thing to thing. When the large man said, 'Solitary confinement is the greatest torture we inflict,' the meagre old woman with the wispy hair at once piped up, laying her hand on her heart, 'It ought to be abolished!' She visited prisons, it seemed.

Here's one of the problems with communicating in the words of a man who is not around to explain himself: it's damn hard sometimes to tell what he was talking about. Look, the sheer fact that people have banged out book after article after dramatic interpretation of this guy should tell you that despite his eloquence, he wasn't the clearest of communicators.

whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth !

I'm going to join that dating agency it's going to open me up to new people; widen my horizons' 'you mean lower your standards and get you dating retards!

Men are like busses. I mean, you wait for ages and ages, and when one does finally come along you can't get on. And that bit about them coming in threes, well, that's just a myth.

I stedet kom vi bare til å gjøre det vi bestandig gjorde, det eneste vi noen gang hadde vært oppriktig gode til: Vi kom til å lese.

She tried to ignore the fact that the dazzling, colourful world John had opened up for her had suddenly switched back to grey.

And the baby would never know what it meant to hate Barnwell so deeply that she couldn't help but return to it.

August is a teacher's longest Sunday" -Weird Sisters

We were fairly certain that if anyone made public the various and variegated ways in which being an adult sucked eggs, more people might opt out entirely.

This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

You only have one life to live. Make sure its yours.

They were light brown in the way that a rose is red, or that the sky is blue. They defined what it meant to be light brown.

Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.

Sleeping was impossible, and we would often be found wandering the house, our white nightgowns gleaming in the darkness, a trio of Lady Macbeths, driven mad by the mercury.

They seemed to be accomplished... all of them doing something brave and new, making space for themselves without waiting for an invitation pg. 158-9

We don’t just come from the womb bearing our talents. They grow from all the things we learn.

Vi har aldri vært velorganiserte lesere som leser en bok helt ut på noen slags logisk måte. Vi bukter oss ut og inn av ord, som turister på en sightseeingbuss man kan hoppe av og på.

Who is he?” Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.” I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the Inferno? Did he pick that name just to cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?” Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.” I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.” I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it. “He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the Inferno. It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t to anyone.” Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh . . .” she muttered under her breath. But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around. “Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me. And that’s how I met Dante Berlin. So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless? He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet to perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt. I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.” He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity. “You must be Eugene,” I said. “I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.” I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described. “And you are—” “Renee,” I interjected. “I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renee will do.” My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.” “Renee like the philosopher Rene Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.” I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move. I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.

There were so many things that were not all right with Phillip, and even more things that were not all right with Phillip and me. And perhaps an even longer list of things that were not all right eith me individually.

He believed in something larger than himself, but there was no evidence to point to someone or something listening to a man with brown leather shoes and a sweaty shirt. He didn't find this unusual or disturbing. Why should he be noticed when there were so many others to notice? It was like the dry blades of grass at his feet. Every blade was different, reaching for the sky in its own humble way, but from a goat's perspective, they were all the same: something to eat.

We came home because we were failures. We wouldn't admit that, of course, not at first, not to ourselves, and certainly not to anyone else. We said we came home because our mother was ill, because we needed a break, a momentary pause before setting off for the Next Big Thing. But the truth was, we had failed, and rather than let anyone else know, we crafted careful excuses and alibis, and wrapped them around ourselves like a cloak to keep out the cold truth. The first stage: denial.

When I open my eyes to a painting, it is as though everything has changed and will never be the same again. Colors look more vivid, the lines and edges of objects sharper, and I fall in love with the world and all its beauty—the tragedies and love stories on the faces of people walking by,

You've heard all about me. I may sound desperate and tragic. But i'm not. The bit about me being single is true, but that doesn't mean I'm easy pickings or that I'm going to fall in to bed with the first man who buys me a cappuccino. Especially if he's married.  She felt dizzy with the effort of being so upfront 

Hello,” he smiled warmly and his big, brown eyes twinkled. “I’m James. James Brown.” “Nice one,” she giggled. “Yes, my parents thought so too.” “So, James Brown, how can I help you?” “I think, perhaps, that it works in the opposite direction. I’m your new regional manager.” “Ah,” Eleanor said, turning slightly pink. “And that probably wasn’t the best introduction!

Her blond hair was—I grappled for the correct terms—both tall and fat, and tumbled well past her shoulders in glossy waves. Even Bobbi Brown might have thought the amount of makeup she was wearing de trop. Raymond’s mouth hung slightly open, just wide enough to post a letter through, and he seemed somewhat dazed. Laura appeared entirely indifferent to his response.

La città, quel tuo desiderio bruciante di libertà, che cosa ti ha dato? Rumore e furore, che non significa nulla. Potrai anche credere che sono un vecchio pazzo fuori di cervello, ma da che io e tua madre abbiamo scelto questa vita, non abbiamo mai avuto rimpianti. Mi guadagno quello che mangio, tutto quello che ho ce l'ho indosso, non mi va di odiare nessuno, non invidio nessuno per la sua felicità".

You might think that it was Rose who had the strongest moral compass of all of us, but we believe that this is actually Cordy's gift. Rose's beliefs are cold and hard, and suffer no sympathy for humanity. But Cordy both knows right from wrong and understands that they are not inflexible ideals, that people compromise for the sake of war, and love, and pain, and that they are simply doing what they must.

The imbalance in the extent of our knowledge of each other was manifestly unfair. Social workers should present their new clients with a fact sheet about themselves to try to redress this, I think. After all, she’d had unrestricted access to that big brown folder, the bumper book of Eleanor, two decades’ worth of information about the intimate minutiae of my life. All I knew about her was her name and her employer.

I stared at her. The imbalance in the extent of our knowledge of each other was manifestly unfair. Social workers should present their new clients with a fact sheet about themselves to try to redress this, I think. After all, she’d had unrestricted access to that big brown folder, the bumper book of Eleanor, two decades’ worth of information about the intimate minutiae of my life. All I knew about her was her name and her employer.

Whoever had chosen the engagement gift had selected wineglasses and a matching carafe. Such accoutrements are unnecessary when you drink vodka—I simply use my favorite mug. I purchased it in a charity shop some years ago, and it has a photograph of a moon-faced man on one side. He is wearing a brown leather blouson. Along the top, in strange yellow font, it says Top Gear. I don’t profess to understand this mug. It holds the perfect amount of vodka, however, thereby obviating the need for frequent refills.

Hun stupte inn i bøkene, etterlignet hver bidige figur hun møtte der. Hun leste en historie om en jente som satt og leste i klesskapet mens hun spiste kjeks med sjokoladebiter i, og da gjorde hun det samme. Hun leste Nancy Drew og Hardyguttene og lette etter ledetråder overalt, skrev dem ned i Harriet spion-notisboka si, selv om hun aldri fikk noe mer ut av dem enn stadig tilbakevendende skuffelser. Hun prøvde å rømme og gjøre som millioner av barn i millioner av bøker, men hun og kofferten med bilde av en liten, gammeldags jente med kysehatt på, kom aldri lenger enn til rododendronbuskene før hun mistet motet.

COOKBOOK FOR THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE The cover was red with a subtle crosshatch pattern and distressed, the book's title stamped in black ink- all of it faded with age. Bordering the cookbook's cover were hints of what could be found inside. Alice tilted her head as she read across, down, across, and up the cover's edges. Rolls. Pies. Luncheon. Drinks. Jams. Jellies. Poultry. Soup. Pickles. 725 Tested Recipes. Resting the spine on her bent knees, the cookbook dense yet fragile in her hands, Alice opened it carefully. There was an inscription on the inside cover. Elsie Swann, 1940. Going through the first few, age-yellowed pages, Alice glanced at charts for what constituted a balanced diet in those days: milk products, citrus fruits, green and yellow vegetables, breads and cereals, meat and eggs, the addition of a fish liver oil, particularly for children. Across from it, a page of tips for housewives to avoid being overwhelmed and advice for hosting successful dinner parties. Opening to a page near the back, Alice found another chart, this one titled Standard Retail Beef Cutting Chart, a picture of a cow divided by type of meat, mini drawings of everything from a porterhouse-steak cut to the disgusting-sounding "rolled neck." Through the middle were recipes for Pork Pie, Jellied Tongue, Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, and something called Porcupines- ground beef and rice balls, simmered for an hour in tomato soup and definitely something Alice never wanted to try- and plenty of notes written in faded cursive beside some of the recipes. Comments like Eleanor's 13th birthday-delicious! and Good for digestion and Add extra butter. Whoever this Elsie Swann was, she had clearly used the cookbook regularly. The pages were polka-dotted in brown splatters and drips, evidence it had not sat forgotten on a shelf the way cookbooks would in Alice's kitchen.

ELEANOR OLSON’S OATMEAL COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 cup (2 sticks, 8 ounces, ½ pound) salted butter, softened 1 cup brown sugar (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 cup white (granulated) sugar 2 eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 and ½ cups flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 3 cups quick-cooking oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute) ½ cup chopped nuts (optional) (Eleanor used walnuts) ½ cup raisins or another small, fairly soft sweet treat (optional) Hannah’s 1st Note: The optional fruit or sweet treats are raisins, any dried fruit chopped into pieces, small bites of fruit like pineapple or apple, or small soft candies like M&M’s, Milk Duds, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, or any other flavored chips. Lisa and I even used Sugar Babies once—they’re chocolate-covered caramel nuggets—and everyone was crazy about them. You can also use larger candies if you push one in the center of each cookie. Here, as in so many recipes, you are only limited by the selection your store has to offer and your own imagination. Hannah’s 2nd Note: These cookies are very quick and easy to make with an electric mixer. Of course you can also mix them by hand. Mix the softened butter, brown sugar, and white sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Beat on HIGH speed until they’re light and fluffy. Add the beaten eggs and mix them in on MEDIUM speed. Turn the mixer down to LOW speed and add the vanilla extract, the salt, and the baking soda. Mix well. Add the flour in half-cup increments, beating on MEDIUM speed after each addition. With the mixer on LOW speed, add the oatmeal. Then add the optional nuts, and/or the optional fruit or sweet treat. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, take the bowl out of the mixer, and give the cookie dough a final stir by hand. Let it sit, uncovered, on the counter while you prepare your cookie sheets. Spray your cookie sheets with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Alternatively, you can line them with parchment paper and spray that lightly with cooking spray. Get out a tablespoon from your silverware drawer. Wet it under the faucet so that the dough won’t stick to it, and scoop up a rounded Tablespoon of dough. Drop it in mounds on the cookie sheet, 12 mounds to a standard-size sheet. Bake Eleanor Olson’s Oatmeal Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 9 to 11 minutes, or until they’re nice and golden on top. (Mine took 10 minutes.) Yield: Approximately 3 dozen chewy, satisfying oatmeal cookies.