Top 83 Quotes & Sayings by Mary Balogh - Page 2

Black is the absence of all color. White is the presence of all colors. I suppose life must be one or the other. On the whole, though, I think I would prefer color to its absence. But then black does add depth and texture to color. Perhaps certain shades of gray are necessary to a complete palette. Even unrelieved black. Ah, a deep philosophical question. Is black necessary to life, even a happy life? Could we ever be happy if we did not at least occasionally experience misery?

It was so much more comfortable to be able to divide people into heroes and villains and expect them to play their allotted part.

Tears never were worth the effort of crying them.

I do beg you to have some regard for my pride. A million years? I assure you I would stop asking after the first thousand.

My happiness has to come from within myself or it is too fragile a thing to be of any use to me and too much of a burden to benefit any of my loved ones.

The suffering of a loved one was in many ways worse than one's one suffering because it left one feeling so very helpless.

I'm terrified that I will never be able to put him from my mind. I don't love him but I'm afraid that he will make it impossible for me ever to love anyone else.

But the things is, you see, that two people can never actually become one no matter how close they are. And it would not be desirable even if it were possible. What would happen when one of them died? It would leave the other as a half a person, and that would be a dreadful thing. We must each be a whole person and therefore we each need some privacy to be alone with ourselves and our own feelings.

Love does not last forever, then?" "He asked me the same thing this morning," she said. "No, it does not - not love that has been betrayed. One realizes that one has loved a mirage, someone who never really existed. Not that love dies immediately or soon, even then. But it does die and cannot be revived.

One day you will learn that love does not always betray you.

The worst thing about loneliness is that it brings one face to face with oneself.

After you married, Crispin, she said, my heart was broken. I will not deny it. But I did not slip into a sort of suspended life that would be forever gray and meaningless if you did not somehow come back to me. I put back the pieces of my heart and kept on living. I am not the woman I was when I was in love with you and expecting to marry you. I am not the woman I was when I heard that you were married. I am the woman I have become in the five years since then, and she is a totally different person. I like her. I wish to continue living her life.

But if one had everything one could ever need or want, what was left to dream of?

Why do I want to run from happiness?

Why did people assume that the beautiful among them needed nothing but their beauty to bring them happiness? That behind the beauty there was nothing but an empty shell, insensitive shell?

She was not sorry. And if it was the wine telling her that, then she would tell the wine the same thing tomorrow. She was not sorry.

It was strange how the heart clung to hope even when there was no reasonable basis for it, Morgan found. And how life went on.

Always guarding one's real, precious self in a cocoon of tranquility within a thousand masks. Life itself had become a secret affair.

But a mother-son relationship is not a coequal one, is it? He is lonely with only you just as you are lonely with only him.

Was memory always as much of a burden as it could sometimes be a blessing.

Love, I have discovered, does not judge. It just is.

Everyone was a rose but even more complex than a mere flower. Everyone was made up of infinitely layered petals. And everyone had something indescribably precious at the heart of their being. No one was shallow. Not really.

Even friends need private spaces, if only within the depths of their own souls, where no one else is allowed to intrude.