Quotes from Alex George

When he left us, he stole all the words.

We are all immigrants, a glorious confection of races and beliefs, united by the rock that we live on. As the years wash over us and new generations march into the future, family histories are subsumed into the greater narrative. We become, simply, Americans.

But love and pain are two sides of the same coin. You can't have one without the other. Sometimes that's how we know we're alive.

The answer to most prayers is no.

You'll leave. And then one day you'll come back, and everything that you once loved about the place will drive you a little bit crazy.

Some things you cannot leave behind. Your history will pursue you doggedly across frontiers and over oceans. It will slip past the unsmiling border guards, fold itself invisibly into the pages of your passport, a silent, treacherous stowaway.

I need to confront my loss, not run away from it. I wanted to wade in with my eyes open and all my senses alert. I wanted to register everything, from the giant waves of sorrow to the inkiest ripples of remorse. I didn't want to miss any of it.

Sometimes life-changing moments slip by unnoticed, their significance only becoming apparent in the light of subsequent events.

There's just so much to live for.

My grandmother's life had been one long opera. There had been drama, heroes, villains, improbable twists, all that. But most of all there had been love, great big waves of it, crashing ceaselessly against the rocks of life, bearing us all back to grace.

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal.

Always, there was music.

What is it?" She hissed through clenched teeth. "What's wrong?" He bent down toward her. "I was just thinking how beautiful you looked." The punch was impressive, both accurate and strong. Jette's fist caught her husband squarely on the jaw. It was an absolute peach of a shot, and it propelled him backward into the chest of drawers.

From across her husband's open grave I had thought she exuded a certain foxy mystique, but now, to my disappointment, she looked just like every other mother I knew.

You'll leave. And then one day you'll come back, and everything you used to love about the place will drive you a little bit crazy.

The women would not be looking at him like this if he were carrying lilies, reflects Jean-Paul. Flowers have there own silent vocabulary. There are blooms for love, for friendship, for sorrow, and for joy. He inspect the roses he is carrying. Long-stemmed and elegant, they have been grown, selected, arranged, and purchased for a single, unambiguous purpose: to seduce.

change who you are simply by climbing on a boat or boarding a train. Some things you cannot leave behind. Your history will pursue you doggedly across frontiers and over oceans. It will slip past the unsmiling border guards, fold itself invisibly into the pages of your passport, a silent, treacherous stowaway.

He remembered his mother once telling him that there were more than three hundred types of cheese made in France. Soured had solemnly replied that one day he would go there and try every one. There were worse reasons to choose a place to live

They call my country the land of the free, but I was born poor and black, and there wasn't much that was free about that.

promontories

proletariat.

They call my country the land of the free, but I was born poor and black, and there wasn't much free about that .

It's not about exact measurements or ingredients', shrugged Lomax, when Joseph complained. 'Good food is about feeling. Cooking is an art, not a science. You got to have soul to feed people right.' He smiled. 'That's what this is. Soul food.

When it comes to dreams and fancies and castles in the air, I have the soul of a millionaire.