Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.
Amy BloomMots clés nostalgia memory confessions
I do not say what I feel, and people often take that for shyness, even kindness.
Amy BloomWe finished off a small pie and when we got home I washed the tomato sauce out of her hair, which I had expected, but also out of her underwear, which I think must be the sign that you have really, really enjoyed your lunch.
Amy Bloom[...] und sie hört, wie er sich in sein Doppelbett legt, auf seine Seite, da er nicht auf Helens Seite schlafen kann, wo er heimlich drei ihrer bestickten Kissen arrangiert hat und sich zum Schlafen ihnen zuwendet, ein Arm um das mittlere Kissen gelegt, den anderen unter dem Kopf, wobei seine Hand wie zum Schutz auf seiner Stirn ruht.
Amy BloomMen do not know what they do not know, and women should not tell them.
Amy BloomMots clés women
The past is a candle at great distance: too close to let you quit, too far to comfort you.
Amy BloomMots clés nostalgia
Marriage is not a ritual or an end. It is a long, intricate, intimate dance together and nothing matters more than your own sense of balance and your choice of partner.
Amy BloomA blind man can see how much I love you
Amy BloomYou are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.
Amy BloomMots clés self-acceptance beauty imperfections body-image
And why is Saint Paula a Saint? She dumps her four kids at a convent. She runs off to Hajira with Saint Jerome. How is that a saint?
You’ve got shitty mothers all over America who would love to dump their kids and travel.
Mots clés amy-bloom saint-paula where-the-god-of-love-hangs-out
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