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 sights and sounds, so that everything looks bigger, brighter, more lovely than ever before? — 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
