The Shell Seekers Quotes

She believed, of course ... because without something to believe in, life would be intolerable.

It was good, and nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever

Happiness is making the most of what you have, and riches is making the most of what you've got.

It was good and nothing good is ever lost.

She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face of love no longer stirred up agonies of grief and bitterness. Rather, one was left feeling simply grateful. For how unimaginably empty the past would be without him to remember.

Grief is a funny thing because you don't have to carry it with you for the rest of your life. After a bit you set it down by the roadside and walk on and leave it resting there.

The greatest gift a parent can leave a child is that parent's own independence.

And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hands, staring down at his enemy's shell.

She may not have believed in God, but I’m pretty certain God believed in her.

As long as Mumma was alive, she knew that some small part of herself had remained a child, cherished and adored. Perhaps you never completely grew up until your mother died.

Grief was like a terrible burden, but at least you could lay it down by the side of the road and walk away from it. Antonia had come only a few paces, but already she could turn and look back and not weep. It wasn't anything to do with forgetting. It was just accepting. Nothing was ever so bad once you had accepted it.

She put out her hand and touched his forearm, as she would have touched some piece of porcelain or sculpture, just for the sheer animal pleasure of feeling its shape and curve beneath her fingertips.

What a happy woman I am, living in a garden, with books, babies, birds and flowers, and plenty of leisure to enjoy them. Sometimes I feel as if I were blest above all my fellows in being able to find happiness so easily." (Quoted from Elizabeth and Her German Garden by Elizabeth von Arnim)

Love she had found, had a strange way of multiplying. Doubling, trebling itself, so that, as each child arrived, there was always more than enough to go around.

She had loved them all, her children. Loved each one the best, but for different reasons.

It is almost as if we are all playing a big game of hide-and-go-seek. We all hide expecting to be found, but no one has been labelled the seeker. We stand behind the wall, at first excited, then worried, then bored, then anxious, then angry. We hide and hide. After a while, the game is not fun anymore. Where is my seeker? Where is the person who is supposed to come find me here in my protected shell and cut me open? Where is that one who will make me trust him, make me comfortable, make me feel whole? Some people rot on the spot, waiting for the seeker that never comes. The most important truth that I can relate to you, if you are hiding and waiting, is that the seeker is you and the world, behind so many walls, awaits.

She had never lived alone before, and at first found it strange, but gradually had learned to accept it as a blessing and to indulge herself in all sorts of reprehensible ways, like getting up when she felt like it, scratching herself if she itched, sitting up until two in the morning to listen to a concert.

If he said anything to me, I would gather the sentences like a shell seeker.

She looked up and saw, high in the sky beyond the racing black clouds, a ragged scrap of blue sky. Enough to make a cat a pair of trousers.

Time had lost its importance. That was one of the good things about getting old: you weren't perpetually in a hurry. All her life, Penelope had looked after other people, but now she had no one to think about but herself. There was time to stop and look, and, looking, to remember. Visions widened, like views seen from the slopes of a painfully climbed mountain, and having come so far, it seemed ridiculous not to pause and enjoy them.

Man’s inhumanity to man, unleashed, was an obscenity, and that obscenity was each person’s own private responsibility.

Three years of changes, moves, uncertainties, upheavals; the war, the revolution; scenes of destruction, scenes of death, shelling, blown-up bridges, fires, ruins—all this turned suddenly into a huge, empty, waste space. The first real event since the long interruption was this vertiginous home-coming by train, in the knowledge that his home was still safe, still existing somewhere, with every smallest stone in it dear to him. This was the point of life, this was experience, this was the quest of adventure seekers and what artists had in mind—this coming home to your family, to yourself, this renewal of life.

I have no idea what Paloma looks like-what she'll be like. I have no idea what to expect. I should've asked more questions. I should've used the last ten hours to grill Chay until he broke-until he confided every dark and dirty secret Paloma is hiding. Instead,I chose to eat.And read.And dream about some phantom boy with smooth brown skin,icy-blue eyes, and long glossy black hair-a boy I've never even met in real life. Lot of good it did me.

Living, now, had become not simple existence that one took for granted, but a bonus, a gift, with every day that lay ahead an experience to be savoured. Time did not last forever. I shall not waste a single moment, she promised herself. She had never felt so strong, so optimistic. As though she was young once more, starting out, and something marvellous was just about to happen.

Mrs. Plackett did not believe in letting emotion show. Keep yourself to yourself had always been her motto.

Nothing’s worth anything unless somebody wants it.

[Describing an unsatisfactory apartment for which an up-and-comer had to settle:] The flat crouched around him, watching like a depressed relation, waiting for him to take some action.

On the contrary, she was aware only of a sort of timelessness, as though it was all part of a plan, a predestined design, conceived the day she was born. What was happening to her had been meant to happen, what was going to go on happening. Without any recognizable beginning, it did not seem possible that it could ever have an end.

It occurred to her, sadly, and not for the first time, that as you grew older you became busier, and time went faster and faster, the months pushing each other rudely out of the way, and the years slipping off the calendar and into the past. Once, there had been time. Time to stand, or sit, and just look at daffodils. Or to abandon housekeeping, on the spur of the moment, walk out of the back door and up the hill, into the lark-song emptiness of a summer morning.

DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC You’re my father. I don’t know much about you. I know your name is Paul James, you’re a thrill seeker, and once upon a time you did stunts and people called you ‘Epic.’ I’ve been told you don’t know about me. That it’s complicated. But for me it’s simple. Here’s the thing: I’m twelve years old . . . and I’m dying. And as much as this could crush my mother, I have to meet you before I go. In time, I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s still in love with you. So, Epic, if you read this, please come back. You don’t have to be my dad. You don’t even have to tell me you love me or you’re sorry. Just come see me.

Which was strange, like watching a tangle of loose threads unravel and plait themselves into a single braided cord, stretching ahead into the future.

And in this life, nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character.

As always, when faced with a dilemma, he planned to by by his own set of rules. Act positively, plan negatively, expect nothing.

Oh well. Better out than in,

disaster relayed is often more frightening than the horror itself

The past is another country, but the journey could be made.

It occurred to her then that people went on living until somebody told you they were dead. Perhaps it was a pity that anybody ever told anybody anything.

Self-reliance. That was the keyword, the one thing that could pull you through any crisis fate chose to hurl at you. To be yourself. Independent. Not witless. Still able to make my own decisions and plot the course of what remains of my life. I do not need my children. Knowing their faults, recognizing their shortcomings, I love them all, but I do not need them.

And all at once it was as it had been before, on that gusty August day during the war, and she was twenty-three years old again, with holes in her sneakers, and Papa sitting beside her. And Richard walked in; into the gallery and into their lives. And Papa told him, "They will come...to paint the warmth of the sun and the colour of the wind." And that was how it had all begun.

the sound of her laughter brought back, with a piercing clarity, ringing across the years, the memory of other laughter, and the unexpected ecstasies and physical joys that happen, perhaps, only once in any person’s lifetime.

Her family... Love and involvement brought joy, but as well could become a hideously heavy millstone slung about one's neck. And the worst was that she felt useless because there was not a mortal thing she could do to help resolve their problems.

It was going to be all right. There were to be no histrionics. For this deliverance Olivia was deeply grateful, but she felt sad too, because it is always sad when someone you have known as a child finally grows up, and you know that they will never be truly young again.

The Scottish clan system was an extraordinary thing. No man was any man's servant, but part of a family. Which is why your average Highlander does not walk through life with a chip on his shoulder. He is proud. He knows he is as good as you are, and probably a good deal better.

Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!” The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.

Luxury, I think, is the total fulfillment of all five senses at once. Luxury is now. I feel warm; and, if I wish, I can reach out and touch your hand. I smell the sea and, as well, somebody inside the hotel is frying onions. Delicious. I am tasting cold beer, and I can hear the gulls, and water lapping, and the fishing boat’s engine going chug-chug-chug in the most satisfactory way.

Yes, she was lovely. But more than that, she was warm and funny and loving. Hot-tempered one moment, and laughing the next. And she could make a home anywhere. She carried a sort of security about with her. I can't think of a single person who didn't love her. I still think about her every day of my life. Sometimes she seems very dead. And other times, I can't believe that she isn't somewhere in the house and that a door won't open and she'll be there.

And in this life, nothing good is ever lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours forever

Cliffords, were not the only people to realise that there were terrible times ahead.’ ‘What happened to your

Absence is the wind that blows out the little candle, but fans the embers of a fire to a great blaze.

the die is cast, There will be time to audit The accounts later, there will be sunlight later And the equation will come out at last.

lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of one’s character. Other

the memory of other laughter, and the unexpected ecstasies and physical joys that happen, perhaps, only once in any person’s lifetime. It was good. And nothing good is ever

You live in Dalton, Georgia? I can’t imagine Dalton, Georgia. Do you live in an apartment, or do you have a house with a garden?” “I have a house, and I have a garden, too, but we call it a yard.” “I suppose, in such a climate, you can grow practically everything.

if

would like to be young again,” he told them.

I would like to be young again. To be able to watch it all happening.

It was good. And nothing good is ever lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of one’s character.

Crusty brown bread, butter, and a pot of pâté de foie gras; chicken Kiev, and the makings of a salad. Olive oil, fresh peaches, cheeses; a bottle of Scotch, a couple of bottles of wine. She bought flowers, an armful of daffodils,

Llegó septiembre y me despierto Y pienso con alegría que, ahora o en el futuro, sea cual sea el sistema No puede eliminar A la gente, siempre habrá gente para Ser amigos o amantes aunque tal vez Las condiciones del amor cambien y sus defectos disminuyan Y el cariño sea rebajado a limitada posesividad, celos fundados o vanidad. Llegó septiembre, es de ella, Cuya vitalidad aumenta en otoño, Cuya naturaleza prefiere Árboles sin hojas y un fuego en el hogar, De modo que le entrego este mes y el próximo Aunque todo mi año será de ella quien ya ha hecho que muchos de esos días fueran intolerables o confusos Pero que muchos más fueran felices; Quien ha dejado un perfume en mi vida y a mis muros Danzando una y otra vez con su sombra; Cuyo cabello está enredado en todas mis cascadas Y todo Londres sucio de recordados besos.

she was steeped in a sort of calm content, a tranquillity that sprang, perhaps, from the rare self-indulgence of total recall.

She didn’t answer the question,” Dumaurier said, as if to himself. “She doesn’t as a rule.” I shrugged. “Well, no. Sometimes she does and I’ve learned not to ask too many questions for fear she’ll actually answer them.

She looked about; saw, in the soft light, her own sitting room, the reassurance of possessions, flowers, plants, desk, pictures; the window open onto her own garden.

There was time to dawdle, space to stand and look. And nothing could ever alter that marvellous blue, silken sweep of the bay, nor the curve of the headland, nor the baffling muddle of streets and slate-roofed houses tumbling down the hill to the water’s edge. The gulls still filled the sky with their screams, the air still smelled of salty wind and privet and escallonia, and the narrow lanes of the old town, mazelike, were as confusing as they had ever been.

И мне жаль вообще весь род людской, потому что, если такая бессмысленная жестокость будет восприниматься как заурядное явление, тогда я не вижу для нас будущего.

Прочность же цепи определяется прочностью слабейшего звена.

black-and-white, so it was no

Именно это и есть самое главное. Быть вместе. Здесь источник силы. Семья, оставившая прошлое позади и никогда, ни на минуту не забывающая, что вслед за зимой обязательно придет новая весна, что она уже в пути

Может быть, он наконец понял, что мелочи в жизни иногда гораздо важнее крупных дел.

Она вся горела, а он добавил еще своего огня. И получился взрыв

-Люди говорят, это пройдёт, время залечит раны. Но в такие минуты невозможно думать о том, что будет после. Ощущаешь только настоящее, только данное мгновение. И оно кажется непереносимым. Никакие слова не могут утешить.

Например, она говорила, что счастье - это умение довольствоваться тем, что у тебя есть. Вроде бы убедительно, а вот я никак не мог усвоить эту логику.

Дело не в том, что это привилегия юных. Просто взрослым некогда грезить. У них слишком много дел, обязанностей, забот.

Страх постучался в дверь, Вера пошла открывать, а там - никого.

Умерла. Какое страшное слово. Точно щелкнули ножницы и перерезали надвое нить, и ты знаешь, что теперь уже никогда-никогда не связать концы вместе.

-Тому, кто остается, всегда труднее.

Они ведь очень любят друг друга, а когда любишь кого-то, хочется быть с ним рядом, поверять все свои раздумья, радоваться вместе. Это так же важно, как дышать.

-...И еще совершенство. Предел. Их нельзя достичь, потому что они не существуют. Любить - это значит не обрести совершенство, а, наоборот, прощать самые ужасающие недостатки.

-Но ведь это прошлое было такое чудесное, как же к нему не обращаться? Да и вообще, о чем же еще думать, если не о прошлом? -О настоящем...вчерашний день прошел и умер, а завтрашний еще не родился. Нам дано только сегодня

Нельзя потерять то, чего не имела.

Горе - оно тебя ударит, а потом отпустит, не надо нести его с собой через всю жизнь. Пройдёт время, и оставь горе на обочине, а сам шагай дальше по дороге.

he picked up his brushes, and with them, the threads of his life.

The bang was like a cannon-blast and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air towards the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backwards, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upwards. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snake-like face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.