Marriage Of Inconvenience Quotes

I’ll tell you what is convenient,” he said after a moment. “To sleep until noon and have someone bring you your breakfast on a tray. To cancel an appointment at the very last minute. To keep a carriage waiting at the door of one party, so that on a moment’s notice it can whisk you away to another. To sidestep marriage in your youth and put off having children altogether. These are the greatest of conveniences, Anushka—and at one time, I had them all. But in the end, it has been the inconveniences that have mattered to me most.

Love didn’t end all at once, no matter how much you needed it to or how inconvenient it was. You couldn’t command love to stop any more than a marriage document could order it to appear. Maybe love had to bleed away a drop at a time until your heart was numb and cold and mostly dead.

Fuck a fucking fuck of fucking ducks.

If she doesn’t learn to weld here, she’ll just learn it on the streets.

If someone can handle you at your worst, they'll stick around for your best.

When love dies and marriage lies in ruins, the first casualty is honest memory, decent, impartial recall of the past. Too inconvenient, too damning of the present. It's the spectre of old happiness at the feast of failure and desolation. So, against that headwind of forgetfulness I want to place my little candle of truth and see how far it throws its light.

The best friends are those you can argue with but love anyway.

You’re going to bend, and so am I. We’re going to compromise, negotiate, and distract each other. Being together means our priorities are going to change. That’s what happens when you make space for another person. Comfort zones will be stretched.

I swear Seamus was conceived by anal sex. There’s no other explanation for him being such an asshole.

I’m in love with you. You’re my fucking—fucking sunshine. My goddamn everything. You’re the center of my whole fucking universe. I’d give up swearing for you, I swear. If you asked, I’d never say the word fuck ever again, that’s how much I love you. I love you more than fuck, so that’s a whole fuckavalot.

You have alerts set up for me?" I asked before I could consider my words. Alex stared at me, his expression thoughtful. "Would it freak you out if I said I did?" "A little, yes." "Then, no." I studied him for a beat. "You're lying." "Correct.

Now that you’ve crushed this little man’s evil hopes and dreams, I imagine he has a hairless cat to stroke and a monologue to prepare.

I was dazed. I was amazed and dazed and frazzled and bedazzled. And bewitched. This was the worst. And the best.

But still, big fucking kaboom. The earth shook, the angels sang, the heavens opened. St. Pete tossed me a high-five. He might’ve winked—dirty old bird—and I might’ve also forgotten my name.

I said, you fuckfaced shitstain,”—his words were low, slow, measured— “get the fuck away from her, or I will fucking fuckily fuck you the fuck up.” I stared at Dan, my lips parting in wonder. He’d just used some variation of the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb, and adjective all in one sentence. I didn’t know whether to be mortified or impressed.

Don't shit on a plate and tell me it's fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.

It’s difficult—no, it’s impossible—as a child to see yourself as worthy or worth knowing if no one else does.

Tell her. Confess. If I told her now, she might not give me cake. Daniel, confess. But... cake. No cake until you confess. Shit.

- It is like a marriage - said the gardener. - Along with the good things, a few little inconveniences always appear.

Nothing hurts like a hostile farewell.

I realized there was no way she could show all that skin and wear a bra. Unless there was some bra made of witchcraft and the invisible wings of fairies that I didn't know about.

if you’re not just a little bit afraid of letting down one or both of your parents, then you must’ve had shitty parents. I’m not talking about paralyzing fear—paralyzing fear also means shitty parents—I’m talking about a sliver of worry, a shard of concern. Take my parents, for example. I couldn’t care less what my pop thought. He was a shitty parent.

Begging your pardon, but I'm not just a secretary. I seriously, seriously despised it when people called secretaries and administrative professionals just a secretary. Being a secretary was a multitasking marathon, a daily gauntlet of making everyone happy all the time.

Potassium is just fine. And water is completely benign. But introduce K to H2O, and shit explodes in real time.

A thing has no value except through use and the accumulation of memories from its use,

almost every depiction you find in books or movies make people living with paranoid schizophrenia the villains. Can you imagine if books and movies did the same thing to people with cancer?

When love dies and a marriage lies in ruins, the first casualty is honest memory, decent, impartial recall of the past. Too inconvenient, too damning of the present. It's the spectre of old happiness at the feast of failure and desolation.

sometimes people are thoughtless, and they make mistakes. I mean, yeah, ideally, let’s do our best to be responsible. However, no one is perfect. That’s why we have the concept of consequences and forgiveness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean there’s no consequences, it just means we accept and deal with the consequences, and then we move forward.

He laughed, definitely forced, and glanced around at his security team. The didn't laugh, likely because they weren't in on the joke, nor were they paid to play the role of sycophants to a psychopath.

Illness is a reminder that we don’t really have any control. And I understand why people find schizophrenia frightening, believe me, I get it. Hallucinations, delusions, it’s difficult to imagine having a mind that is not fully your own, just like it’s difficult to imagine having cancer, where your body isn’t fully your own. But people living with paranoid type often experience less dysfunction than people living with other subtypes. They’re often able to live, work, and care for themselves. And yet, almost every depiction you find in books or movies make people living with paranoid schizophrenia the villains. Can you imagine if books and movies did the same thing to people with cancer?

She was just kind and genuine. Pure, even. I hated that her good heartedness and naivety were going to cost her so dearly because I was going to bust up her marriage and take her husband if it were the last thing I did.

...love was an action, an instinct. A response wrapped by unplanned moments and small gestures. An inconvenience in someone else's favor. How I felt it most when he drove up to New York after work at 3 in the morning just to hold me in a warehouse in Brooklyn after I had discovered my mother was sick. The many times these months he had flown 3000 miles whenever I needed him while he listened patiently through the 5 calls a day I'd been making since June, and though I wished our marriage could begin under more ideal circumstances, it had been these very trials that had assured me he was everything I needed to brave the future that lay ahead.

So, if you can’t bring yourself to mourn his passing, maybe, instead, mourn the relationship you wished you’d had with your father, so you can let him go.

I embraced it. Actually, I tackle-hugged it.

I will fucking ruin you, do you hear me? You are nothing! Nothing! I sighed, tired of his irrelevant presence. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be sure to file that info right between fuck this and fuck that.

I’d thought for so long that I would become a schizophrenic, and if I was a schizophrenic, that’s all I would ever be. But a person doesn’t become their diagnosis. Your mom isn’t breast cancer, you don’t become cancer. You live with cancer. So often, we think of a person living with mental illness as their mental illness, and that’s unfair. A person is never their diagnosis, not even my mom. Delilah showed me that. She lives—and has lived—a full life. She has a husband. They travel. She’s a photographer, an artist. She tells the funniest knock-knock jokes I’ve ever heard. She takes her meds every day, but still has hallucinations from time to time. She is not schizophrenic. She lives with schizophrenia.

Shards of glass. As Stan escorted me from Caravel, I decided that if I formed a band, I would call it Shards of Glass. And we’d only sing really, really angsty songs about my ex, Dan O’Malley. So many words rhymed with Dan. It was meant to be. Man. Plan. Fan. Ban. Tan. LAN. Uzbekistan. The songs would basically write themselves.

I mean, really ponder what God gave you breath for. Most of our suffering means nothing. What are we striving for? To make ourselves more comfortable? To add prestige or honor to our reputation? Buth then you find something - a cause, a person - worth dying for, and you realize that's the best gift God can give you, because until you know what you'd die for, you don't know what you're living for.

We’d spent two years—two fucking years—with a misunderstanding between us. I didn’t want to do that again, not even for two hours. So what am I going to say? It was a particular place to be, this limbo. It had me asking myself philosophical questions and thinking things like, What is love? And, How do you know you’re in love? And, Why does she think she loves me? And, If this shitty feeling is love, I’m going to be so pissed. Because if this shitty feeling was love, if this choking, desperate mix of happiness and pain I felt every time I saw her or thought about her was love, if I’d been in love with her this whole fucking time and I’d been lying to myself and lying to her and wasting time, then I deserved a big, fat fucking punch in the face. “Crap,” I said, shaking my head at myself.

It’s about to rain forks and knives,” Winterborne reported, water drops glittering on his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray on the table, and raised it in Tom’s direction. “Good luck it is, for the wedding day.” “Why is that, exactly?” Tom asked, disgruntled. “A wet knot is harder to untie,” Winterborne said. “The marriage bond will be tight and long lasting.” Ethan Ransom volunteered, “Mam always said rain on a wedding day washed away the sadness of the past.” “Not only are superstitions irrational,” Tom said, “they’re inconvenient. If you believe in one, you have to believe them all, which necessitates a thousand pointless rituals.” Not being allowed to see the bride before the ceremony, for example. He hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Cassandra that morning, and he was chafing to find out how she was feeling, if she’d slept well, if there was something she needed. West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels. “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew. “Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him. “We’re about to have a soaker,” West said briskly. “We’ll have to take everyone out to the chapel as soon as possible, before the ground turns to mud. Don’t open one of these indoors: It’s bad luck.” “I didn’t think you were superstitious,” Tom protested. “You believe in science.” West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.” Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.” “What’s fertility?” Justin asked. In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?” “As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.” West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested. The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?