But she was waiting patiently. She no longer believed in talk. It never rescued anything. At seventy she had come to believe in time alone. ~pg 254
If I shut my eyes, I believed, I would disappear. To make it through, I had to be present the whole time.
Heaven is comfort, but it’s still not living.
As she stood in the darkened room and watched my sister and father, I knew one of things that heaven meant. I had a choice, and it was not to divide my family in my heart.
He had been my almost. My might-have-been. I was afraid of what I wanted most – His kiss. Still, I collected kiss stories. -Susie Salmon
I watched my beautiful sister running . . . and I knew she was not running away from me or toward me. Like someone who has survived a gut-shot, the wound had been closing, closing – braiding into a scar for eight long years.
You’re not supposed to look back, you’re supposed to keep going.
The relationship with the words someone uses is more intimate and integrated than just a quick read and a blurb can ever be. This intimacy – the words on the page being sent back and forth from engaged editor to open author – is unique in my experience.
She liked to imagine that when she passed the world looked after her, but she also knew how anonymous she was.
He had a moment of clarity about how life should be lived: not as a child or as a woman. They were the two worst things to be.
Depending on where I am in the process, sometimes I have a page count and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I have an hour count; sometimes I’m just happy to string a few words together. I do keep pretty rigorous hours, because otherwise you never get anything done.
In this deeply nuanced portrait of an American family, Bret Anthony Johnston fearlessly explores the truth behind a mythic happy ending. In Remember Me Like This, Johnston presents an incisive dismantling of an all-too-comforting fallacy: that in being found we are no longer lost.