Kristin Hannah The Nightingale Quotes

If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.

But love has to be stronger than hate, or there is no future for us.

Men tell stories. Women get on with it. For us it was a shadow war. There were no parades for us when it was over, no medals or mentions in history books. We did what we had to during the war, and when it was over, we picked up the pieces and started our lives over.

Wounds heal. Love lasts. We remain.

I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known.

Some stories don’t have happy endings. Even love stories. Maybe especially love stories.

Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between.

Perhaps that’s why I find myself looking backward. The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present.

I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

I am a mother and mothers don’t have the luxury of falling apart in front of their children, even when they are afraid, even when their children are adults.

Today’s young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.

It is easy to disappear when no one is looking at you.

Tante Isabelle says it’s better to be bold than meek. She says if you jump off a cliff at least you’ll fly before you fall.

But when he looked at her—and she looked at him—they both knew that there was something worse than kissing the wrong person. It was wanting to.

In love we find out who we want to be, in war we find out who we are.

You are my sunlight in the dark and the ground beneath my feet.

It is not biology that determines fatherhood. It is love.

You’re not alone, and you’re not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.

She wanted to bottle how safe she felt in this moment, so she could drink of it later when loneliness and fear left her parched.

If you’re going through hell, keep going.

I belong to a generation that didn't expect to be protected from every danger. We knew the risks and took them anyway.

He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known.

I had forgotten how gently time passes in Paris. As lively as the city is, there’s a stillness to it, a peace that lures you in. In Paris, with a glass of wine in your hand, you can just be.

She was so tired of being strong.

A girl’s love for her father. Immutable. Unbearable but unbreakable.

She has a steel exterior, but it protects a candyfloss heart.

know now what matters, and it is not what I have lost. It is my memories. Wounds heal. Love lasts.

If there’s one thing I never do, it’s stop.

With all the risks they were taking, love was probably the most dangerous choice of all.

How fragile life was, how fragile they were. Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between. It didn’t matter that she was broken and ugly and sick. He loved her and she loved him, All her life she had waited -longed for - people to love her, but now she saw what she really mattered. She had known love, been blessed by it.

Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can.

Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you.

I know now what matters, and it is not what I have lost. It is my memories. Wounds heal. Love lasts. We remain.

She wanted to say "Don't leave me", but she couldn't do it, not again. She was so tired of begging people to love her.

If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. Today’s young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention.

I loved you both with all of my damaged heart.

We are all fragile. It’s the thing we learn in war

She realized that the landscape of a woman's soul could change as quickly as a world at war.

Memories- even the best of them- faded.

She was so tired of being considered disposable.

It doesn’t hurt, it’s just my body. They can’t touch my soul.

the failing of a student to learn is the failing of the teacher to teach.

She wouldn't have understood how dark a side love could have, how hiding it was the kindest thing you could do sometimes.

Why was it so easy for men in the world to do as they wanted and so difficult for women?

Love has to be stronger than hate, or there is no future for us.

In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.

Beauty was just another way to discount her, to not see her.

Vianne didn’t hesitate. She knew now that no one could be neutral—not anymore—and as afraid as she was of risking Sophie’s life, she was suddenly more afraid of letting her daughter grow up in a world where good people did nothing to stop evil, where a good woman could turn her back on a friend in need. She reached for the toddler, took him in her arms.

Men tell stories,” I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. “Women get on with it.

A broken heart hurts as badly in wartime as in peace.

They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us

At my age, I should not be afraid of anything—certainly not my own past.

In his face, I see the whole of my life. I see a baby who came to me long after I’d given up … and a hint of the beauty I once had. I see … my life in his eyes.

Men tell stories,” I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. “Women get on with it. For us it was a shadow war. There were no parades for us when it was over, no medals or mentions in history books. We did what we had to during the war, and when it was over, we picked up the pieces and started our lives over.

I love you,” he said against her lips. “I love you, too,” she said but the words that always seemed so big felt small now. What was love when put up against war?

If love is a disease, I suppose I'm infected.

Asking yourself a question, that’s how resistance begins. And then ask that very question to someone else. —REMCO CAMPERT

The lights are going out all over Europe; We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime. —SIR EDWARD GREY, ON WORLD WAR I

Antoine was Julien’s father in every way that mattered. It is not biology that determines fatherhood. It is love.

He leans close and kisses each of my cheeks, whispering, "I loved her all of my life," as he draws back.

You will learn that a lot of things are possible.

I don’t know why it’s so easy for me to forget how much I love her. We start fighting, and…” “Sisters.

In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are

She was wiser than she’d been before. Now she knew how fragile life and love were. Maybe she would love him for only this day, or maybe for only the next week, or maybe until she was an old, old woman. Maybe he would be the love of her life … or her love for the duration of this war … or maybe he would only be her first love. All she really knew was that in this terrible, frightening world, she had stumbled into something unexpected. And she would not let it go again.

How can I possibly sleep at a time like this?” He sighed. “You will learn that a lot of things are possible.

what good is safety if she has to grow up in a world where people disappear without a trace because they pray to a different God?

She thought: It doesn't hurt, it's just my body. They can't touch my soul. It had become her mantra.

But now it is time to look ahead, not behind.

I think, as this war goes on, we will all have to look more deeply. These questions are not about them, but about us.

A single diamond brooch was her only adornment (one good piece, ladies, and choose it well; everything makes a statement, nothing speaks quite so loudly as cheapness).

We are outside again, walking, when he takes a bite and stops dead. "Wow," he says after a minute. Then, "Wow," again. I smile. Everyone remembers their first taste of Paris. This will be his.

Grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

I can’t help smiling at that. He is such an American, this son of mine. He thinks one’s life can be distilled to a narrative that has a beginning and an end. He knows nothing about the kind of sacrifice that, once made, can never be either fully forgotten or fully borne. And how could he? I have protected him from all of that.

Their kiss was sad, an apology almost, a reminder of what they’d once shared.

She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing.

Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost. Lost. It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don't belong and turned away, too confused to retrace my steps. They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us.

She was crying for it all at last--for the pain and loss and fear and anger, for the war and what it had done to her and to all of them, for the knowledge of evil she could never shake, for the horror of where she'd been and what she'd done to survive.

I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I’d like to be known.

You'd be surprised at what I can do.

Love is such a slippery thing.

She whispered in his ear. “Tell my sister I asked about her. We parted badly.” He smiled. “I am constantly arguing with my brother, even in war. In the end, we’re brothers.

Sophie was too old for lies and too young for the truth.

You are not alone, and you are not the one in charge," Mother said gently. "Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God - and each other and ourselves - in times as dark as these.

The sound of his voice reminds me that I am a mother and mothers don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of their children, even when they are afraid, even when their children are adults.

I had forgotten how gently time passes in Paris. As lively as the city is, there's a stillness to it, a peace that lures you in. In Paris, with a glass of wine in your hand, you can just be. All along the Seine, street lamps come on, apartment windows turn golden. "It's seven," Julien says, and I realize that he has been keeping time all along, waiting. He is so American. No sitting idle, forgetting oneself, not for this young man of mine.

He had the kind of smile that inhabited every part of his face-his eyes, his cheeks; there was even a dimple. I wear my heart on my sleeve, that smile said, and no woman could be unmoved by such transparency.

I don’t know the right thing to do anymore. I want to protect Sophie and keep her safe, but what good is safety if she has to grow up in a world where people disappear without a trace because they pray to a different God?

You're not alone and you're not the one in charge," Mother said gently. "Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God- and each other and ourselves- in times as dark as these.

Even more important than what she gave her garden was what it gave her. In it, she found a sense of calm.

They hadn't loved each other enough in the time they had, and then time ran out.

Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.” *

Bitterness would do you good. All that smiling and pretending of yours would give me hives.

The smile he gave her was barely one at all. “We are all fragile, Isabelle. It’s the thing we learn in war.

The father who went off to war was not the one who came home.

He had abandoned her after all; it filled her with the kind of bone-deep disappointment she knew so well. Had she learned nothing in life? People left. She knew that. They especially left her.

I have spent a lifetime running from it, trying to forget, but now I see what a waste all that was. Antoine was Julien’s father in every way that mattered. It is not biology that determines fatherhood. It is love.

Vianne knew Rachel wasn’t asking how to hide in the barn; she was asking how to live after a loss like this, how to pick up one child and let the other go, how to keep breathing after you whisper “good-bye.” “I can’t leave her.

Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between. It didn’t matter that she was broken and ugly and sick. He loved her and she loved him. All her life she had waited—longed for—people to love her, but now she saw what really mattered. She had known love, been blessed by it. Papa. Maman. Sophie. Antoine. Micheline. Anouk. Henri. Gaëtan. Vianne. She

Morning sunlight gave everything a golden, beautiful glow. “We were supposed to have time,” she whispered, feeling tears start. How often had she imagined a new beginning for her and Papa, for all of them? They would come together after the war, Isabelle and Vianne and Papa, learn to laugh and talk and be a family again. Now it would never happen; she would never get to know her father, never feel the warmth of his hand in hers, never fall asleep on the divan beside him, never be able to say all that needed to be said between them. Those words were lost, turned into ghosts that would drift away, unsaid. They would never be the family maman had promised.

She was wiser than she'd been before. Now she knew how fragile life and love were. Maybe she would love him for only this day, or maybe for only the next week, or maybe until she was an old, old woman. Maybe he would be the love of her life... or her love for the duration of this war... or maybe he would only be her first love. All she really knew was that in this terrible, frightening world, she had stumbled into something unexpected. And she would not let it go again.