When I am upset about something, it gives me a stomachache. I have to address it right away so that I don't make myself sick.
Sally. . . can no longer think of love as a reality, or even as a possibility, however remote.
When all is said and done, the weather and love are the two elements about which one can never be sure.
Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were. Butterflies for instance, and women who've been in love with the wrong man too often.
I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real. . . . Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.
There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.
Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last.
I can now see to the bottom of my own depths, there is nothing stopping my gaze, no obstacle is in the way. And there is nothing there.
God was havin' himself a good day when he made boobs. He must've stepped back from Eve and said, Yes ma'am! Those'll work.
My definition of beauty is something between extremely ugly and extremely fantastic.
You wouldn't be allowed to get on a particular bus, but you'd be asked to sign your autograph.