Best 14 quotes of Abigail Thomas on MyQuotes

After all, there are those people we like and dislike, there are those people we love, and then there are those we recognize. These are the unbreakable connections.

For better or for worse, but not for lunch,...

Forget career, forget the future, forget existential worries, just get yourselves a couple of dogs, and everything will be all right.

Good things happen slowly," said a doctor in the ICU months ago," and bad things happen fast." Those were comforting words, and they comfort me today. Recovery is a long, slow process. There are good days and bad days for both of us.

He is wearing an old overcoat from the Salvation Army in Easton, Pennsylvania. It cost five bucks ten years ago, Louise remembers. Henry is not interested so much in the bargain, he wants ghosts in his clothes. He likes wondering what another man kept in those deep pockets. He writes poems about it.

I am trying to make sense of this. Survivor's guilt, acceptance, there were words that made me roll my eyes; surely I was too sophisticated for such cliches... So now today I look up the word acceptance and the definition is "to receive gladly" and that doesn't sound right. I flip to the back, and look up its earliest root, "to rasp," and discover this comes from the old English for "a thread used in weaving," and bingo, that's it. You can't keep pulling out the thread. You have to weave it in and then you have to go on weaving.

It ended sadly. The kind of ending where you wait together, holding hands and weeping, while off in another room, love slowly dies.

I used to get upset if somebody I didn't like loved a book I loved. That's MY book, I'd think.

Nothing is wasted when you are a writer. The stuff that doesn't work has to be written to make way for the stuff that might; often you need to take the long way around. And if you're writing memoir you're bound to discover things about yourself you didn't realize before, may indeed prefer never to have know, but there you are: progress of some sort.

Once upon a time, when I was young, his forgetting might have rendered my memory meaningless. I no longer require so much from life.

She would (if she could) put her arm around the girl she'd been and try to tell her Take it easy, but the girl would not have listened. The girl had no receptors for Take it easy. And besides, "Hey Jude" was on the radio, it was her prayer, her manifesto, almost her dwelling place. She sang it everywhere. The music made her cry then; it makes her cry now. Listening to it now brings back memories so sharp they taste like blood in her mouth.

Sometimes I feel like I'm rescuing a drowning man, and I only have time to rise to the surface for one gasp of air before I go back down again. There is an exhilaration to it, a high born only partly of exhilaration, and I find myself almost frighteningly alive. There is nothing like calamity for refreshing the moment. Ironically, the last several years my life had begun to feel shapeless, like underwear with the elastic gone, the days down around my ankles. Now there is an intensity to the humblest things- buying paper towels, laundry detergent, dog food, keeping the household running in Rich's absence.

What is this longing, she will want to ask. This troubling feeling of more to come. You can make something out of it, I want to tell her. But that's what her life is for.

You had a certain way of saying my name. It was the inflection maybe, something you put into those three syllables. And now you are gone and my name is just my name again, not the story of my life.