Sue Monk Kidd Quotes - Page 8

To remain silent in the face of evil is itself a form of evil.

There's nothing like a song about lost love to remind you how everything precious can slip from the hinges where you've hung it so careful.

I wondered what it was like to be inside her, just a curl of flesh swimming in the darkness, the quiet things that had passed between us.

It was the oldest sound there was. Souls flying away.

My mother's life was way too heavy for me.

Sunset is the saddest light there is.

I grew up in the American South and came of age in the 1960s, an incredibly turbulent time. It was as if the seams of American life were being ripped apart with riots and protests.

I wanted to know what happened when two people felt it. Would it divide the hurt in two, make it lighter to bear, the way feeling someone's joy seemed to double it?

I marvel at how good I was before I met him, how I lived molded to the smallest space possible, my days the size of little beads that passed without passion through my fingers. So few people know what they're capable of. At forty-two I'd never done anything that took my own breath away, and I suppose now that was part of the problem - my chronic inability to astonish myself.

The only wrong thing, perhaps, is permanently hesitating on the verge of courage.

... in the end, Goddess is just a word. It simply means the divine in female form.

When compassion wakes up in us, we find ourselves more willing to become vulnerable, to take the risk of entering the pain of others.

The True Self is not our creation, but God's. It is the self we are in our depths. It is our capacity for divinity and transcendence.

Novels attempt to render human experience; that's really all they are. They are meant to convey empathy for the character.

Back in the autumn I had awakened to a growing darkness and cacophony, as if something in the depths were crying out. A whole chorus of voices. Orphaned voices. They seemed to speak for all the unlived parts of me, and they came with a force and dazzle that I couldn't contain. They seemed to explode the boundaries of my existence. I know now that they were the clamor of a new self struggling to be born.

Where had I been that I didn't know about imaginary friends? I could see the point of it. How a lost part of yourself steps out and remind you who you could be with a little work.

I watched him, filled with tenderness and ache, wondering what it was that connected us. Was it the wounded places down inside people that sought each other out, that bred a kind of love between them?

I'll write this all down for you," I said. "I'll put it in a story." I don't know if that's what he wanted to ask me, but it's something everybody wants--for someone to see the hurt done to them and set it down like it matters.

I'd forgotten how that sort of craving felt, how it rose suddenly and loudly from the pit of my stomach like a flock of startle birds, then floated back down in the slow, beguiling way of feathers.

Actually, you can be bad at something...but if you love doing it, that will be enough. - August Boatwright

What matters is giving over to what you love.

Sometimes you want to fall on your knees and thank God in heaven for all the poor news reporting that goes on in the world.

When had my fear of broken plates gotten so grandiose? My desire for extravagant moments so small?

I've always been a journal-keeper. I've always tried to write about how I'm experiencing life, and my feelings and thoughts.

It's always been my hope that I would write a story that would inspire and would connect with people in a way that would touch hearts.