Love is as varied and unpredictable as the rain is: it comes in constant summer drizzles, or sudden, unforseen storms that make rivers burst their banks and Cornish fishing boats rock and spill and lose their crew in the Atlantic. — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
“Which people take the time to care for their souls, these days? I reckon not many. But...hear this: I think that maybe in our lives -- in our scrabbling for food, in the washing of our bodies and warming of them, in our small daily battles -- we can forget our souls. We do not tend to them, as if… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share
“A man can be beautiful, I see that now. It's not just a woman's term, not a word reserved for romantic, virtuous, elegant things. I don't think beauty is neat any more. It's unordered. It's unbrushed hair and a torn back pocket. It's bright and strange and lovely, and if I were to paint him, I'd use all the warm… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share
“What creatures we are. What powers are in us--in all of us. What we already know, if we choose to spend time with ourselves.… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
“A man can be beautiful, I see that now. It’s not just a woman’s term, not a word reserved for romantic, virtuous, elegant things. I don’t think beauty is neat anymore. It’s unordered. It’s unbrushed hair and a torn back pocket. It’s bright and strange and lovely, and if I were to paint him, I’d use all the warm colours… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share
“There are some stories that you don't tell aloud, that you make up and tell silently to yourself.” — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
We carry on. We have ourselves and we carry on- in spite of our losses and mistakes and women, I think, have more than… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
Love is blind, they say--but isn't it more that love makes us see too much? Isn't it more that love floods our brain with… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
“So I say this. Speak of them. Speak of those that died. Speak of all those who ever died--in all the world's history, in its wars, and long-lost days. Speak of those who met their deaths in Glencoe, in snow--not of their deaths, but of their lives before them. Not of how they died, but of how they bent to… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share
“So I was for stories. I was for stries just as gannets were for balls of silver-flashing fish - I'd crash towards them, gaping.… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
Kisses open doors, I've noticed. That one gesture can unlock secrets, ease open feelings. It can't be prevented--these kisses just are. It's how they… — Susan Fletcher Copy Share Image
