Best 30 quotes of Gina Marinello-sweeney on MyQuotes

A few days earlier, Adriana and I had been browsing books at the local library. I happened to turn around and look at her...and that was it. The man who "loved to laugh" in Mary Poppins had nothing on us.

A girl locked in a tower with no life experience. But, you know, Rebecca . . . this isn’t a fairy tale. Your tower will never protect you from the darkness outside.” “And your tower will always be a prison,” I said softly.

And the shower of roses spun around me, inviting me to take part in their ever-present waltz.

A poem must be authentic. It could be flowery, it could have the most brilliant metaphor, it could be bursting with onomatopoeia and alliteration, assonance and consonance, hyperbole and paradox, from every end, it could have daring syntax and clever cacophony, it could have a neat and ordered rhyme scheme...but, if it loses its authenticity, its ability to convey the very heart and soul of the poet, then all the euphony and cacophony in the world cannot make up for the loss of its identity as a poem. And that is the true cacophony.

Can a rose survive in winter?

Caution: Danger ahead. Do not refer to Adriana as little in regards to either her age or stature. If you happen to disregard this most basic of laws, approach with caution. Much, much caution.

. . . for a moment, perhaps an hour, they would wait, wait for something, and when that waiting was over, it was simply dismissed, goodbyes stated, reading materials closed, a momentary pause in the day that did not hold up to whatever came next. Waiting was often a resented gift, imparted to those who accepted it grudgingly in the hopes that something better would come along when the gift was tossed aside, boxed away for the next recipient.

Icy pillars of serenity, spun from airy mist, entered my quiet vision in echoes of worlds unknown.

I stared back at her, my eyes leveled with hers in inscrutable certainty. For a moment, our eyes remained engaged, unflinching and impenetrable, as the shrill, steady call of a siren ran across the street outside, mixing with the effervescent glow of traffic lights and a steady pitter-patter of pedestrian feet sauntering across the street in wakeful gait.

I told my imagination to discontinue communication with my thoughts.

It’s more than a feeling,” I whispered to the darkness of my room, “and . . . even more than a choice. It is a conviction. And a mystery. A beautiful, beautiful mystery.

It was a gaze that held the comfort of familiarity. There was no mystery, no enigmatic depth, but unrestrained length, the length of years—the laughter of childhood games and Christmas carols of home— lining its pathways with simple, yet easily overlooked, understanding.

Many a year I told her tales. And then the time came for me to watch. And watch I have.

Maturity is so often considered to be synonymous with ‘adult.’ But I truly feel that maturity may be defined by the ability to be both an adult and a child.

My mother once told me as a child that you can tell who is coming by the mere sound of their footsteps. I remember looking at her incredulously, my short curls bouncing in agreement with my dissent. Yet, upon her departure, I heard in her footsteps the essence of Mom. Ever since, I would know who was approaching down the hall of our home without prior visual identification. And the footsteps I heard at the entrance of the bookstore carried the vague echo of a memory that promised dread.

Or, maybe what really mattered was that game of Crazy 8s.

Peter kept the same pace that I did, even though I knew that I helplessly dragged my feet. The image of a doctor guiding an invalid grudgingly entered my mind. Yet there was a companionable silence as we trudged onward. My mind was still half vacant, but I felt safe. And, although our hands did not touch, I felt as if they did.

Rebecca, we live in a world where darkness seems, in the minds of many, something banished to the world of fairy tales and superhero movies. How surprising it then becomes—even for those of us who believe otherwise—that it may appear in our own lives, in our own battles. To face an opponent that is more than the average ‘jerk,’ who has made a deadly choice, is, let us admit it, nothing that we expect to experience.

The college bookstore was a splash of life, culture, and society. As a psychology student, I often found myself intrigued by the behavior, ways of thinking and feeling, and general schemata of others, and this was the perfect spot to engage my senses. Other times, I was just annoyed.

The Eternal Smiler strode forth, handing her one, as well. I considered the psychology behind her smile and formed the conclusion that, despite its obvious coating of pleasantry, it was an understandable psychological decision.

The last time I checked, I wasn’t the one who tripped over a glass container of sugar that I had myself dropped... after, of course, having received several bruises from an attempt to retrieve a flip-flop that had somehow ended up in the sink.

The luminescent flow of a sunbathed garden— illuminating the shifting colors of its inhabitants— echoed in my memory as I opened the antique bookstore door in the shaft of window light. The books, like the flowers of the garden, awaited me with the thrill of a new mystery.

Then I guess,” she said, “you like to be vexed.

The only way that your work will truly find an audience is if it is genuine.

There is a host of angels surrounding you, Rebecca. Not figuratively. Literally. With wings spread far to encompass you, protect you with their Light. Remember that they are with you—see them with your heart and soul—whenever you are forced to engage in battle with forces that seek and have become, through their own will, evil.

The starry night sky echoed across my thoughts, the expanse of my own void filtered in its quiet solitude.

They whirled around in the light dance of a duchess entering a ball—majestic yet understated—a spiraling splash of purity of color that took shape under nature’s watch. A newly-sculpted garden burst forth, glistening in an afternoon sun. It welcomed the dusty pink rose, who stood beside its fellows, basked themselves in their own serenity of white, triumphant red, or cheery yellow. It swayed in the breath of a wind, caressing each and becoming more. It was a mixture of quiet and thunderous, light and dark, shyness and boldness. It was a mixture of the quiet strength and overwhelming courage that the human soul might wish to one day possess.

Those who find something in I Thirst, who can relate to a project so close to my heart, instantly become a sort of "friend." Whenever people come to me and tell me that they appreciated I Thirst or thank me for writing it, I feel that I have done something right--not because I am one of the greats, but because the story spoke to them in some way, in a way that perhaps was universal but uniquely their own all the same. I put out my story, but the readers made it their own.

Yes, it is,” I whispered, “and one day the spell will not cause you to forget it.

You were...are...what I heard. Every note.