Sarah Hall may refer to:
I'll tell you this, lad: A tattoo says more of a fellow looking at it than it can do of the man who's got it on his back.
I don't like novels that tie everything up in a plot-y way. I always think that's not really true of life, particularly of people in power.
You didn’t understand what he was saying, until he kissed you. It was a kiss of such complicity, of such uncomplicated sympathy, that you felt for the first time not alone in your suffering.
Of all the conditions we experience, solitude is perhaps the most misunderstood.
All innocent mechanisms are muddied up with experience. Children become less and less translucent. Layers of guile and suspicion grow. It's the law of paternal disenchantments.
The man had added to his body in a way that was brave and timeless and beyond adornment.
You’ve been wondering lately when the moment is that somebody is truly lost to you.
There are stories told to him only at this time of year. Fantastic, magical stories, the old Hollier in the woods finding only three red berries, which peel back in the night to reveal gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Christmas in hot deserts, dust-blown countries, the necklace of tears, and the story of the robin.
People went through life like well handled jugs, collecting chips and scrapes and stains from wear and tear, from holding and pouring life.
Those partial to drink were hiding faults and dishonesty. They were sloppy souls, even the ones with pleasant manners and fine noses.
At night, in the garden, it occurs to you that it might have been your heart that left you as you reached the capital. Your heart might not have travelled well, closed up in its cavity, quivering and gnawing at the bars of your ribcage during the commute. It might be tracking north now, along edgelands, past spoil-heaps and stands of pylons, under motorway passes, back to the higher ground. Back to him.
We should not forget that when we limp away afflicted through the spirit, it is not to the factory gates or to the corporate steps we pilgrimage. Instead we go to the sea for its salt. We find shade under the sycamores on the great avenues. Or we go to the rivers where water tells us modestly of its own sickness.