She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain.… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
“The world should not be organized to require heroines, and when one is required but fails to appear we should not judge. We should… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
“It's his last thrill and his last sting of love, as fresh and painful as youth transplanted over time and an ocean. There is… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
“By fall, they can read. It happened by osmosis, the way it ought to: after they have spent several months on Daddy's lap, following… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
Afterwards, in bed with a book, the spell of television feels remote compared to the journey into the page. To be in a book.… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
“Perhaps God dropped them on their heads before they were born.” — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
There are some stories you can't hear enough. They are the same every time you hear them. But you are not. That's one reliable… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
Some people talk about children wanting to be born as though somewhere out there in the collective unconscious there's a spirit, or a thought… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
“Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.” ― Ann-Marie MacDonald, Fall on Your Knees” — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
Do you think there's such a thing as a ghost who masquerades as a person? Do you believe that there are people whose bodies… — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
The world should not be organized to require heroines, and when one is required but fails to appear, we should not judge. — Ann-Marie MacDonald Copy Share Image
