Writing is a cop-out. An excuse to live perpetually in fantasy land, where you can create, direct and watch the products of your own head. Very selfish. — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
If you have it, it is for life. It is a disease for which there is no cure. You will go on riding even after they have to haul you on a comfortable wise old cob, with feet like inverted… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
You and your horse. His strength and beauty. Your knowledge and patience and determination and understanding and love. That's what fuses the two of… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
Nursing is a kind of mania; a fever in the blood; an incurable disease. — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
“When I can't ride anymore, I shall keep horses as long as I can hobble around with a bucket and a wheelbarrow. When I… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
Nursing is a kind of mania; a fever in the blood; an incurable disease which, once contracted, cannot be got out of the system.… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
“Now that it was safe to drag their relationship out into the light and examine it mercilessly it was fantastic on what a thin… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
Writing is a cop-out. An excuse to live perpetually in fantasy land, where you can create, direct and watch the products of your own… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
“Mary could be as sullen or rebellious as anyone on occasion, but she never achieved the glorious abandon with which Angela simply went her… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
Nothing that ever happens in life can take away the fact that I am me. So I have to go on being me. — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
We dominate a horse by mind over matter. We could never do it by brute strength. — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
“She had not told her mother about Denys, but she had a suspicion that Mrs. Shannon knew all about it nevertheless. It was unlike… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
“While they were dancing, the buoyancy that the champagne had given her left her all at once, and she slumped and felt suddenly tired… — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
Come to the stable. Come to where the horses are, and the sweet, grainy, pungent smells. — Monica Dickens Copy Share Image
