Best 30 quotes of M. J. Rose on MyQuotes

‎"As Oedipus learned, the more you run away from what is predetermined the more you run toward it.

Is there a secret? Yes. Anaïs Nin and Pauline Réage and Anne Rampling and Erica Jong all knew it. E. L. James knows it. It is the secret behind all of our writing. And our reading. Arousal starts in the mind. And grows in the mind. The brain is the most erogenous zone in a woman’s body. That is our secret. And it is what we share.

Keep in mind that television, magazines, movies, and even newspapers rarely show images of average-shaped bodies.

More than 3,500 hardcover novels are published each year. Even the most avid reader buys fewer than one a week.

Needing someone doesn't make you weak, it makes you feel. And feeling is how you know you're alive.

Perfume is magic. It's mystery. We recreate the smell of a flower. Of wood. Of grass. We capture the essence of life. Liquefy it. We store memories. We make dreams.

Self-body hate, like any hate or other strong negative emotion, contributes to unneeded weight gain by triggering junk-food cravings.

Sometimes love worked out, but more often it failed

The one thing I am now sure of is that if there is such a thing as destiny, it is a result of our passion, be that for money, power, or love. Passion, for better or worse. It can keep a soul alive even if all that survives is a shimmering. I've even seen it. I've been bathed in it. I've been changed by it.

The owl is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?

There's no one thing you can do to have success, but if you have a plan and you keep doing things, you'll eventually build to a success.

The secret, which is not so secret after all, is that the people who we love live on in our hearts, in the beat of our blood.

What we do is a wonder, an art, and we have a responsibility to do it well.

Aunt Grace had once told me that we can romanticize the unknown far too easily. It is much harder but more satisfying to assign wonder to what we were familiar with.

Everyone in the tribe believed in life after death and the spirit’s ability to be reborn and live again in a new body. The undying soul was unquestioned. Did not the leaves fall off the tree and become part of the soil that nourished the tree which spouted new leaves?

I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation as much as a series of sounds. It reverberated inside me.

I think beauty can be a great lie. Sometimes the greatest lie.

It was a fitting animal for a priest. Cats guard the secrets of the otherworld and are liaisons with mystic realms. Protectors of esoteric knowledge, cats can open the gates through which a priest can see the future and gain insight.

Jersey cows,” Eva explained after Jac complimented the luxurious taste. “The butter and cream here are better than anywhere in the world.” “Not that we’re prejudiced,” Theo teased.

Look at that magic. Light mattered to Monet, to Cezanne, to Manet, and now Matisse is moving into almost flat color, and everyone is following. And Picasso? He doesn't care about light at all. But you can't have beauty without light, and beauty is the only worthwhile quest. Don't lose your way trying to become popular.

...men are monsters all, and something in them wants to force others to see the world the same way they see it.

No, the sadness will soften, its edges will become less rough. In time missing him will be the way you love him.

One man's ugliness can blind another to the world's magic.

Patterns, Mr. Tiffany once said, be they found in events, in nature, even in the stars in the firmament, are proof of history repeating itself. If we see randomness, it is only because we don't yet recognize the pattern.

The business of living can steal away the wonder of life.

The library at home when she was child had been her refuge. She gravitated to it. When she was anxious, just taking a book of a shelf calmed her. Opening the cover, feeling the paper’s smoothness, smelling the sheets, the leather, even sometimes the ink, centered her.

There was, for many of us, a great escape in reading about the fantastic and supernatural during wartime. Terrors more terrible than those we were living through gave us an outlet for our anxiety.

They called it the Great War, but that implied worthiness and grandeur, not violence and helplessness and the utter waste and devastation our country, our city, our people endured.

To be a decent writer you must have both empathy and imagination. While these attributes aid your art, they can plague your soul. You don’t simply suffer your own sadness, experience your own longing and worry about your own wife and children, you are burdened with experiencing the emotional states of multitudes of others you don’t know.

We're all broken in one way or another, but it's through the cracks in our souls that the light comes through. And the light, Jenny, that's our art. Now, paint. Paint as if your life depends on it.