On the day of the hunt I came to know in the slick center of my bones this one thing: all animals kill to survive, and we are animals.

Barbara Kingsolver

Barbara Kingsolver

Profession: Novelist
Nationality: American

Some suggestions for you :

Pushing a refrigerated green vegetable from one end of the earth to another is, let's face it, a bizarre use of fuel. But there's a simpler reason to pass up off-season asparagus: it's inferior.

Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.

People hang on for dear life to that one, she thought: the fool they are right now.

A bird in the hand loses its mystery in no time flat.

But if we can't summon the empathy to imagine what our dead would have asked of us, or the selflessness to give it, then we must accept the desperately sad verdict that each generation's hopes will die with it, and no cumulative progress is possible for the human will.

When I was Turtle's age I had never had anyone or anything important taken from me. I still hadn't. Maybe I hadn't started out with a whole lot, but pretty nearly all of it was still with me.

Damned thing, self-consciousness, like a pitiful stray dog tagging you down the road—so hard to shake off. So easy to get back.

I thought I wouldn't live through it. But you do. You learn to love the place somebody leaves behind for you.

It's a great freedom to give up on love, and get on with everything else.

So he just stood there brewing like a coffeepot. Only with a coffeepot you know exactly what's going to come out of it.

Eating is a genuine need, continuous from our first day to our last, amounting over time to our most significant statement of what we are made of and what we have chosen to make of our connection to home ground.

Let's go take a walk down to the blue hole. You need to look at some water.

Our journey was to be a great enterprise of balance. My father, of course, was bringing the Word of God—which fortunately weighs nothing at all.

I was exhausted but also for the first time in weeks I felt sleepiness, that rare, delicious liqueur, soaking into my body like blotter paper.