More than anything, Natalie wanted to move to the bed, take Sophie's hand, sit beside her. Lay her head against her shoulder. But she didn't dare. Or maybe just couldn't. Fear. Friendship. Desire. Regret. Remorse. Longing. Hunger. Terror. It was getting so hard to tell the difference between any of those things. If she'd ever been able to. If anyone really could. Glen Hirshberg
A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.
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Elbert Hubbard
When someone loves you, the way they talk about you is different. You feel safe and comfortable.
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Jess C. Scott
I think if I've learned anything about friendship, it's to hang in, stay connected, fight for them, and let them fight for you. Don't walk away, don't be distracted, don't be too busy or tired, don't take them for granted. Friends are part of the...
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Jon Katz
How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live 'em. How much love inside a friend? Depends...
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Shel Silverstein
The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends.
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Friedrich Nietzsche
More Quotes By Glen Hirshberg
I’m a husband, a father of two, a full-time teacher, and so my writing process mostly involves sitting down and writing, any chance I get, anywhere I am, for as long as life will let me. Music helps. Good light helps. I love quiet and...
The fever, I realized, had gone. Beneath my feet, the hardwood floor felt cool on my feet, the air gentle against my itching legs. This was just the world, after all. Big, thoroughly mapped place to sell joy or buy it, hunt company or flee...
More than anything, Natalie wanted to move to the bed, take Sophie's hand, sit beside her. Lay her head against her shoulder. But she didn't dare. Or maybe just couldn't. Fear. Friendship. Desire. Regret. Remorse. Longing. Hunger. Terror. It was getting so hard to tell...
The ghosts that exert the most power in people’s lives-at least, the people I know—tend to be of their own making, and consist of equal parts regret and old fears and just plain missing somebody.
...I’ve never understood the logic that says a work doesn’t need to be judged on the quality of its writing or characters simply because its genre. On the other hand, I’ve also never understood the logic of excusing a work from the need to tell...
