Luann Quotes

Sometimes waiting is the hardest thing of all.

Love is the easiest thing there is. It's the layers of doubt, fear, and expectation that make it complicated.

The biggest mistake any of us can make is thinking that love is a feeling, an emotion. It's not that at all. It's an action.

Goodbyes were impossible, unless you didn't realize you were saying them.

(LuAnn) Whatever. That'll teach me not to build my life around a man whose favorite book is Atlas Shrugged. Listen, kid." She waggles her finger, as if scolding me. "Nothing good comes from Ayn RAnd. Trust me on this.

What the eye couldn’t see, the imagination filled in. We put names to the unexplained. Cast it as something to either fear or worship. And yet just because a thing can’t be seen doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

Look up.

Clear nights are sometimes the coldest.

The music never leaves. Once you have it, you can't lose it.

Judgment is easy: it is black and white, as brutal as a gavel strike.

Our stories remind us how precious and fragile life can be-- and that we must risk our hearts everyday to know happiness.

Beach girls now, beach girls tomorrow, beach girls till the end of time.

happy endings start with new beginnings.

Some feelings are stronger than fear: love, longing, desire.

The heart had a tendency to harden off after being forced to survive inside a life two sizes too small, deprived of the oxygen of dreams.

You fall in love with the girl next door but married her sister.

never judge anyone by their appearance, or the car they drive, or the house they live in, or even by the words they say. judge people by their actions. that's how you know whether they're bad or good." - perfect Summer

We think we've seen it all before, we think we know it all by heart.

Sometimes it's more generous to take than give, he said. "How?" Caroline asked. "To let the other person give you what he has to offer. If you're always the one giving, you never have to feel disappointed, because you don't expect anything in return. But it's miserly in its own way. Because you never leave yourself open or give the other person a chance.

I don't get as much fan mail as an actor or singer would, but when I get a letter 99% of the time it's pointing out something that really had an impact. Like after 'My Own Private Rodeo' all these people wrote to me and said Dale's dad inspired them to come out. And this was when it was still illegal to be gay in Texas and a few other states. Another one that really stuck with me was this girl who survived Columbine. See, "Wings of the Dope," the episode where Luanne's boyfriend comes back as an angel, aired two weeks after the shooting. About a month after that, I got a letter from a girl who was there and hid somewhere in the school when it was all going on. She said the first thing she was gonna do if she survived was tell a friend of hers she was in love with him. She never did. He ended up being one of the kids responsible for it. So you can imagine how - you know, to her, it felt wrong to grieve almost, and she bottled it up. But she saw that episode and Buckley walking away at the end and something just let her finally break down and greive and miss the guy. I remember she quoted Luanne - 'I wonder if he's guardianing some other girl,' or something along that line, because she never had the guts to tell the kid. That really gets to people at Comic Con.

Emboldened by the dark phase of the moon, the constellations twisted round in their infinite sky, slowly corkscrewing into the future, divining immutable futures for those still awake and gazing up.

We put names to the unexplained. Cast it as something to either fear or worship. And yet just because a thing can’t be seen doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

A good sailor knows everything is always changing.

Mark my words – fashions change, causes change, but men’s ambitions never do.

Sometimes you have to act a little crazy just to stay sane.

When we hurt people just to punish them, Luanne used to say, we create a darkness that will live on long after our reasons for giving birth to it have faded.

Missing pieces do more than complete the puzzle, they fill in an empty space.

Worrying doesn’t change anything, just causes unnecessary stress.

she debated the wisdom of not having waited longer for someone more suitably dressed to pass by on the road. Now she regretted how the stolen coat smelled

Intuition knows the truth when heard, but the sound can leave a terrible ringing in the ears.

If you love someone, everything else is crap.

People who don't like doing things together probably...well probably shouldn't get married.

Before dawn, the air smelled of lemons.

He wouldn't try to make her feel better about something if it meant telling her a lie.

He wouldn’t be the first man to learn he’s wrong about something he’s certain about.

He likes being all superior and reminding me how much I don’t know.” “So you’re saying he’s a man?

She was Elena, disciple of the All Knowing and daughter of the Chanceaux Valley. And she was free.

Something you always look for, but never know when it's going to happen

I can't get past the strange contradiction that seems to lurk behind everything we do. Because no matter what, or who, we end up choosing, all of us feel like we've failed somehow. Kayla feels guilty for planning a future with Blake; Dominique feels guilty that she won't with Carlos. LuAnn dropped everything to make it work with her guy, and I'm filled with shame every time I think about how I did the same thing, building my life around Garrett without realizing it then working just as hard to take that version of my life apart, piece by piece. So how are we supposed to win? On the one hand, the world tells us that capital-L Love is epic, and all conquering, and the meaning of everything, but on the other it drills us with this message that we shouldn't make any sacrifice or effort to pursue it, because that would make us weak, unempowered, desperate, silly girls.

The patients there were mostly teenaged girls, with the occasional boy. I thought of us all as tigers with thorns in our paws. We were beautiful beasts who’d gotten injured by life, by loss or trauma or shock, and if we could just get the splinters out of our paws, we’d be fine. My thorn was the fact that my mother had left me. Megan

Conhecia a natureza do corpo humano: que era formado por 97 por cento de água. Que as suas veias continham água salgada, tal como os afluentes sujeitos às marés. Que uma vez por mês, bem, antes da gravidez, o ciclo do seu corpo ecoava o movimento da Lua nas marés dos oceanos

That was really it, her message as a nun and a child of God: listen deeply to your heart. That was how and where God communicated with people. Not so much in burning bushes or on mountaintops, in blue grottos or apparitions of the Virgin Mary, but more often in the depths of their own hearts.

All I know is we're 16 and ready to be kissed, kissed kissed.

Every day the world subtracts from itself and nothing is immune.

Don't let over description ruin your work -less is more. No one cares that you know what "Acquiesce" means. Seriously.

Love is the greatest blessing there is, and when you love someone as much as he loved you, you can’t let go lightly. You just can’t.

In the absence of sisters, we find sisters. In the absence of mothers, we find mothers. In the absence of family, you are my family.’ 

Camille Claudel, Auguste Rodin’s model and thrown-away lover.

No one’s path stops midlife. It must continue toward its end.

Summer meant the garden. It meant roses, hollyhocks, larkspur, geraniums. It meant birds. It meant long days and starry nights.

Water is what people need to survive,” he said. “It quenches the deepest thirst, and you don’t have to be rich to drink it. There’s nothing better than cold water….

Be ready for the gift you least expect. Every day. It’s the only way to live….

faith: belief in light of the absence of proof, enlightenment received through prayer, and that which is seen and unseen….

At night, all the cats are gray.

Power craved power, leading some into dangerous alliances.

Mark my words—fashions change, causes change, but men’s ambitions never do,

The transformation, the struggle between light and dark, that is what propels life forward. That metamorphosis is one’s purpose for existing.

It made her dizzy to think of the spinning world and the multitude of destinies swirling together, fueling the future forward for everyone—individually and collectively.

He imagined her being more like a placid dark lake that one had to give their soul over to for the privilege of knowing how deep her waters ran.

But we don't always go to church" -Emily "Caring about people doesn't just take place there. It's how you act out in the world, when no one is looking, where it really counts" -Dad

There’s a certain vulgarity in assigning worth to any individual life when each represents a piece in the mosaic of the whole.

me, loving someone means carrying them, and feeding them, and holding them when they’re scared. God might be up there”—he nodded his head back, tilting up toward the ceiling—“but I’m down here.

Les pieds de Dieu. Do not tell my superior, but the smell of God’s feet is heaven to me.” The monk smiled. Threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Eight months ago I added milk, rennet, and a little salt together in a wooden vat. Pressed it, shaped it, and put it on the shelf to age. Today I have a delicious cheese to share with a guest. But the flavor, monsieur, that grows from something I did not add.

Sierra laughed and looked so happy that it touched his heart. It didn't dawn on him until now that she always looked a little sad. And perhaps lost. Well, if she were lost, he had just found her, and he wasn't about to let her go.

Chaos and order rested on two sides of a sharp edge, but so did pain and pleasure. Harmony and discord. There was not one without the other. Always the dance of tension. One could choose which side to lean into if or when the blade tipped off-center.

Neither she nor her sister could resist collecting the shiny trinkets that churned up with the river's tide. Rings, bottles, spoons, keys, combs, bones - there was always something new coughed up on the bank, as if the water grew perpetually ill on the taste of human detritus.

Hugh had been her obsession. When he was away, she had assumed he was with other women. It drove her crazy, dominated her thoughts. She had tried to concentrate on her daughters, but her own insecurity was much too huge. When Skye would beg for a story or Clea would need help with her music lessons, Augusta would tell them to ask Caroline. So Augusta could be with Hugh.

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter to the other. “Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. “Now there is no more loneliness; now you are two persons but there is only one life before you. “Go now to your dwelling place to enter into the days of your life together. “And may your days be good and long upon the earth and in heaven.

It was in that kitchen where I waited for Daddy and Mrs. Masicotte to be finished with the weekly business, two rooms away. Though Mrs. Masicotte seemed as indifferent to me as her renters were, she provided richly for me while I waited. On hand were plates of bakery cookies, thick picture books with shiny pages, punch-out paper dolls. My companion during these vigils was Zahra, Mrs. Masicotte’s fat tan cocker spaniel, who sat at my feet and watched, unblinking, as cookies traveled mercilessly from the plate to my mouth. Mrs. Masicotte and my father laughed and talked loud during their meetings and sometimes played the radio. (Our radio at home was a plastic box; Mrs. Masicotte’s was a piece of furniture.) “Are we going soon?” I’d ask Daddy whenever he came out to the kitchen to check on me or get them another pair of Rheingolds. “A few minutes,” was what he always said, no matter how much longer they were going to be. I wanted my father to be at home laughing with Ma on Saturday afternoons, instead of with Mrs. Masicotte, who had yellowy white hair and a fat little body like Zahra’s. My father called Mrs. Masicotte by her first name, LuAnn; Ma called her, simply, “her.” “It’s her,” she’d tell Daddy whenever the telephone interrupted our dinner. Sometimes, when the meetings dragged on unreasonably or when they laughed too loud in there, I sat and dared myself to do naughty things, then did them. One time I scribbled on all the faces in the expensive storybooks. Another Saturday I waterlogged a sponge and threw it at Zahra’s face. Regularly, I tantalized the dog with the cookies I made sure stayed just out of her reach. My actions—each of which invited my father’s anger—shocked and pleased me.

freeze, so she opted for pants with a thick, nubbly sweater that added substance to her frame. As always, her necklace was in place, and she donned a lovely bright cashmere scarf to keep her neck warm. When she stepped back to appraise herself in the mirror, she felt she looked almost as good as she had before chemotherapy started. Collecting her purse, she took a couple more pills—the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but no reason to risk it—and called an Uber. Pulling up to the gallery a few minutes after closing time, she saw Mark through the window, discussing one of her photographs with a couple in their fifties. Mark offered the slightest of waves when Maggie stepped inside and hurried to her office. On her desk was a small stack of mail; she was quickly sorting through it when Mark suddenly tapped on her open door. “Hey, sorry. I thought they’d make a decision before you arrived, but they had a lot of questions.” “And?” “They bought two of your prints.” Amazing, she thought. Early in the life of the gallery, weeks could go by without the sale of even a single print of hers. And while the sales did increase with the growth of her career, the real renown came with her Cancer Videos. Fame did indeed change everything, even if the fame was for a reason she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Mark walked into the office before suddenly pulling up short. “Wow,” he said. “You look fantastic.” “I’m trying.” “How do you feel?” “I’ve been more tired than usual, so I’ve been sleeping a lot.” “Are you sure you’re still up for this?” She could see the worry in his expression. “It’s Luanne’s gift, so I have to go. And besides, it’ll help me get into the Christmas spirit.

Corn Chowder This recipe is from Marjorie Hanks. She used to make it on the stove, but now that Luanne got her a slow cooker, she makes it this way.   ½ cup diced cooked ham (or 6 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled) 2 cups peeled, diced potatoes ½ cup chopped onion 2 ten-ounce packages frozen whole-kernel corn 1 can (16-ounces) cream-style corn 1 Tablespoon brown sugar 1 teaspoon Tabasco sauce 1 teaspoon Season Salt (see Mrs. Knudson’s recipe on backmatter) ½ teaspoon black pepper 1 cup chicken broth   Spray the crock of a 4-quart slow cooker with Pam. Combine all ingredients in the crock-pot and stir well. Cover and cook on LOW for 6 to 7 hours. Yield: Makes 4 hearty servings.

We're keeping them alive," she said. "Sweetheart, the fence, the wall, is inhumane. People are dying." "That's their choice,"he actually said. "They come here illegally, that's the chance they take." "When did you get so hard?" she asked, holding his face between her hands. "They're human beings like us, looking for a better life for their families. You understand that, don't you? You did it for us." "It's a humanitarian crises," she said. "And you're part of the problem. That's why you can't sleep at night.

Who cared about those things? Didn't Peter know that it was impossible to make up for lost time? Three years was half of six years; every day, every minute in life was all its own, and could never be replaced with another. "When you love someone," she said, with her eyes shut tight, barely recognizing her own voice, "you want to be together whenever you can. If you want it badly enough, you just make the practical things work out.

Okay, more disclosure. I'm not a fugitive at the moment, but I might become one. I don't know if I'm going back for a trial. I can't go to prison and leave the twins alone. We'll leave before it comes to that. I don't want to get you in trouble." Hilda waved off the words. "I'm an old woman. They ain't gonna take me out of here in shackles. I've seen most of the local officers run around in diapers." Luanne was pretty sure that didn't mean immunity. She'd seen Chase naked, and that hadn't stopped him from arresting her. She didn't tell that to Aunt Hilda.

I'm a patient man, but I'm not going to wait endlessly." "But...," She stammered. "But what?" "It's so fast." He growled. "When I went slow, you wanted fast. Now I'm going fast, you want slow. Luanne Mayfair, are you trying to drive me crazy on purpose, or is it just a lucky side benefit as far as you're concerned?

Fine,” I tell them. “I’ll come. It could be fun.” “Famous last words.” LuAnn laughs.

LuAnne looked at Liz with pity. “It never healed, Miss Liz. That’s the problem with white folks. They think if everything is going along smooth like; as long as black folks doing their work and not getting uppity, they think things are okay and then, just like that, you turn around and somebody’s killin’ someone and everything’s in a mess, and white folks open their mouths and say, ‘Why, why is this happening? We was all getting along so good. Must be the black man’s fault. He ain’t ever satisfied.’ 

advice from me: Don't out write your readers: confusion never leads to good sales.

The log stretched across the stream. It had been there for some time. Sticks, feathers, and debris had caught on stray branches protruding from one end. The stream flowed beneath the log, lazy and blackish-green, just before it widened and joined the Connecticut River. Pine trees grew thick along one bank, while reeds whispered along the other.

north. The stars had blazed low over the curving hills. Her father had dropped them off hungry, to make them hunt for their food. Sharpening a stick, she had waited in the rushes.

EVERYONE THOUGHT QUINN was watching Meet the Press with Grandma, even Grandma. Lying on the sofa, covered with an afghan, Quinn had simply rolled off and stuffed pillows under the covers while Grandma stared at the screen. Then she had sidled upstairs, out her bedroom window, and down the oak tree growing right by the house.

Life was so short. Every moment was precious!

Violence merely increases hate . . . adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.’ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

She found the combination intriguing. Because there were three, at all times two sisters holding hands would be facing the same direction. And one would be facing a different way. No matter how you looked at it, two would always be united. And one would be separate. But which two? And which one?

Drunk or just drinking, Skye had passed many hours trying not to think about the hunt, about the gun and Andrew Lockwood, about any of it. She had drunk to get loaded, to get wasted, to get happy, to get sad, because she loved the taste, because she was against killing animals, because her husband liked rough sex, because she had nightmares about snakes under her tent, because her father had stopped loving her, because she hated Swan Lake, because she had gone to Redhawk, because she was mad at her mother for offering to trade her life for Caroline’s, because Skye herself had killed a man dead.

Well, I left him in my room so my mother wouldn’t see him.” “ ’Cause you hadn’t convinced her to let you keep him yet,” Mark said reasonably. “Did you leave the cats to keep him company?” “Yes,” Augusta said. “And did they become best friends?” Maripat asked, happily sensing the end of the story. “No,” Augusta said, knowing she was in too deep. “He ate them.

What about Tiny?” Maripat asked shyly. “Well, I left him in my room so my mother wouldn’t see him.” “ ’Cause you hadn’t convinced her to let you keep him yet,” Mark said reasonably. “Did you leave the cats to keep him company?” “Yes,” Augusta said. “And did they become best friends?” Maripat asked, happily sensing the end of the story. “No,” Augusta said, knowing she was in too deep. “He ate them.

Cat limbs all over the floor, chewed to the bone.” “Mew-Mew, Licorice!” Maripat cried. Tearfully, Augusta told them about Tiny grinning at the end of Augusta’s bed, covered with blood. His little tongue hanging out, a demoniacal mask on his face, his fangs dripping with blood as he sprang for her throat just before she slammed the door shut.

She upset the kids. She told them a really awful story about a pet she had when she was little.” “How bad could a pet story be?” “Well,” Clea said, knowing this fell in the “only in our family” category, “it eviscerated her cats and could have killed my mother in her sleep. I’d say that’s good for a few nightmares, wouldn’t you?

Jane’s dream had ripped her heart from her chest, as if the past were a lion that could eat her alive.

she’d looked it up and read the definition (“deprived of the possession or use of something; lacking something needed, wanted, or expected”)

liked the way Jane smiled at her—as if Jane was looking for and seeing the very best in Chloe. Not like teachers, always correcting you, trying to improve you, and not like parents, just waiting for you to do the next wrong thing, so they could shake their heads and let you know how disappointed they were in you. . . .

Jane seemed to just like her. She liked her without wanting anything in return:

without him—I wasn’t sure I could go on breathing. But I did.” “I know,” Sylvie said. “It was because I loved him,” Jane said. “And that’s what love does. It takes hold of you so hard . . . takes hold of your breath. Your heart, your pulse, your thoughts, everything.

Love doesn’t give you control—it takes control of you.

You make it sound mad,” Sylvie said. “As if it drives you crazy.

Had Jane felt that way this whole time? Back when it had all happened, Sylvie remembered feeling really angry at her: Sylvie had chosen Brown partly so she could be at college with her sister. Then Jane had gotten pregnant and ruined everything.

Stars were caught in the tree branches. She wished she could keep stars in her pocket, just to give him every time she saw him.

Jane put her hand on the calendar, as if she could take those days right in through her skin, her pores, into her blood and bones, hold them forever. But time didn’t work that way. Time was all about the present. It was where you were and what you were doing, in any given moment, that gave life its meaning.

But her life on this earth had taught her this: that love, in the end, was all that mattered. Friends, families, suitors, husbands: Goodness abounded in all of them.