“If you are going to have a story, have a big story, or none at all.”
“O, korkuyu yenmenin gururuyla, haz alarak yaşıyordu.”
“Of all the dreams I ve dreamt, my little boy, you were always the center of the story.”
“We need to know that for stories to be good and true and beautiful, they must align with the Story that is ultimately good and true and beautiful. We need to know and tell the better Story.”
“There were other things, though. There were always more details trailing any good story. Like tin cans on the back bumper of a newlywed’s car. Rattles and pings and wonderful small moments spinning in the wake of a great life.”
“In the white bowl, the paper caught fire, burning like a desperate flower, blooming and dying at the same time. Its scents came on tendrils of smoke, wrapping themselves around me. We missed you. I inhaled, and Victoria s kitchen disappeared around me. It was early morning in the cabin, winter; I could smell the woodstove working to keep the frost at bay. My father had fed the sourdough starter, and the tang of it played off the warm scent of coffee grounds. I could smell my own warmth in the air, rising from the blankets I d tossed aside. I remembered that morning. It was the first time I ever saw the machine. I must have been three, maybe four years old. I d woken up and seen my father, standing in the middle of the room, a box in his hands, bright and shiny and magical. I remembered racing across the floor, my bare feet tingling from the chill. What is it, Papa? It s wonderful. I want to know. And he d put the shiny box aside and lifted me up high and said, You are the most wonderful thing in the world, little lark. The last of the paper crumbled to ash. I stood there, trying to remember what had happened next- but I couldn t. Did my father show me the machine, or did we go outside and chop wood? You d think I d remember, but I didn t. What I remembered was how it felt to be held in his arms. To be loved that way, before everything else happened. And in that moment, I felt whole. Oh, I heard Victoria say, and when I turned to her, her eyes were filled with tears.”
“Diyeceğim, bizim halkımız, sokağa on yılda bir dökülür. İnançları ve parası değer düşümüne uğratıldığında. Her on yılda bir, kılığı da değişir. Düşüşü kolaylaştıran yabancı-unsurlardan birtakım özellikler kaptığından.”
“Stories become the gift we give the world: the beauty that can grow out of what has wounded us, our brokenness, and the world shattering.”
“The most powerful stories are not about the storyteller, they are about the person who is hearing the story.”
“Not every bit of a good story is true,” said Lucie. Her cheeks were bright pink. The air had become chill; Cordelia pulled her cloak around her. “It’s the story that’s important.”
“when you spend all your time imagining yourself in other people s shoes, your own story goes unwritten, & there is nothing more painful than that.”
“You never know what people are going through, because, each person you meet has a story to tell, So instead of being judgmental-Just listen well !”
“The gift of story is wisdom”
“But this story? This one s mine.”
“Gramps said, How about a story? Spin us a yarn.”
“Sometimes, the Brightest Smile, Has the Dullest Story.”
“The question is what story do you need to tell, in order to give notice to that thing with fangs that keeps chewing through your insides.”