Top 15 Andrea Lewis Quotes

He pointed toward the constellation. He did indeed know things. ...But it was hard for me to take it all in. The night was too crowded with joy. And the desert was making all that noise. And next to me, the girl... With every shooting star, she touched my arm and whispered, “Ooh, Mister, look.”

Yes, it’s hard to explain... It sets you apart, and people think you’re nuts. ...[N]obody else saw omens, auras, colors. I once cried over a sheep dog—a day before he died—and then was cursed as if I caused it. After that I kept quiet. I pretty much kept quiet for fifty years once I realized nobody cared... Even a tumbleweed trapped under barbed wire has purpose. ...I never denied the gift, if that’s what it was, but it came with loneliness.

My plan... was to watch the Perseid meteor shower. ...before I died. But a call came in at midnight... I... started down New Mexico state road 44. The night was warm and clear, and I could hear the high desert all around me, breathing and stretching in the dark. Even as a little boy, I could see things––beyond what others saw—but now I could hear things too. ...Everything on the plateau hummed: the volcanic ridges and the red desert floor; the San Juan River and the Aztec Ruins; the spiny edges of and piñon, moving on the breeze.

We came down from the trees, up from the grasslands, and into an SUV. We drove. We motored. We headed for that Texas horizon, flat as the flat-line on a heart monitor, straight to the brink of extinction, all the while pumping gas.

Even the blue-and-white Delftware tile is back up on the wall because, when you took it down, the pale square of paint behind it broke your heart.

Each somersault whipped out a perfect arc of shiny drops from his thick black hair. Then, as if it were his decision and not gravity’s, he opened the blade of his body toward the water and pierced its placid blue surface.

Rodney, whatever is the opposite of philosophy?
"My dear, the opposite of philosophy is terror."
"Terror? You mean fear of death?" I asked.
"I don't think so..."
"Fear of what, then?"
"Of never having lived."

And so for the remaining two hours of the meeting, Mr. Delgado and I sat in the front and directed the discussion. Or rather he directed it and I pretended I had an equal voice. A pattern quickly emerged in which my words would be greeted by silence and chilly looks; then Mr. Delgado would rephrase what I had said, as if interpreting from female to male language, with the added weight of an American accent.

A cottonwood leaf beetle scuttled out of the loosened earth, frantic legs working the sandy dirt, orange and black body desperate for a new hiding place. The sunset was fading, and a bloated ocher moon pushed its way into the dark blue sky.

I loved these compliments, which he lobbed at me like popcorn at a pigeon. I felt silly for craving his attention and powerful because he had noticed me. I bounced between those extremes, every other heartbeat, laying down hope one stratum at a time. The fact that he was all wrong––married, my boss, a flirt––gave me a perverse desire to make it right.

I envied him these passions. If you had passions, you were living. Without them, you were watching––the way I was watching desert sand and half-dead creosote go by and wishing I’d stop craving attention from Charles.

Someday I’ll do an historical survey and in-depth analysis of lipstick color names and it will be an accurate reflection of our evolving culture.

One of the abiding mysteries of my life is the fact that lipstick disappears from my mouth five minutes after I put it on. I’m in awe of women who are always––always––lipstick intact, even during and after meals. I guess I’m a chronic lip-biter, lip-licker and mouth-wiper. But since I found out that the average woman eats nine pounds of lipstick in her lifetime, I can’t bring myself to reapply that often. Whatever chemicals they’ve added to make a lipstick long-wearing, I’d just swallow those too.

Lips... were ubiquitous in the ‘50s, when a few icons of womanhood were tattooed onto my temporal lobes.

Joy can come alive like that, when random pieces of history and rhythm, pause and expectation, melody and lyric, suddenly rearrange themselves into a pattern that leaps up, back against the wall, and catches your heart.