Mary-Louise Parker Quotes

I don’t know if you feel conflict when you hear the phrase “new reality,” or if it makes you want to throw in the towel. When you realize that the only thing to be counted on is the shifting and reestablishing of proximity, do you ever feel like, why did I bother searching in the first place? We have to rewrite ourselves again and draw all new maps.

I couldn't get life loud enough.

Thank you for giving me your arm and those four hours that I now understand you did not have an endless supply of. It was short but I loved our little trip. We fell in love, but the way you love a view that comes along once or twice in life.

You waved at Soren while I fought to look neutral because I was taken with you and slightly enraged for no reason. Enraged is the wrong word,but I felt like I wanted to kick you in the shins and then make you banana bread. I wanted to key your car and take you out for dim sum. It was admiration,passion and that voice of yours all mushing together and disarming me,making me want to smash something and kiss someone.

Time, that cold bastard, with its nearlys and untils. I think, what a shame. Time should weep for having spent me without you.

I can’t take credit for more than remembering to point to you when I do something right and for continuing to put one foot in front of the other when I lose heart.

this right now, this is the only time I am all here and no part of me needs time travel Right

I went on tiptoe to whisper to you while you nodded and answered back like we'd been talking for hours. It must have been impossible to tell from the outside who in our dance was leading who, or to hear that bell that rang for our ears only, telling us when to stop.

We are the custodians of people’s memories You

I wrote about us while you were away in a notebook that eventually saw the end of us, but the last I wrote about that time was in ink; it was a hurried, angry scrawl reading: Time, that cold bastard, with its nearlys and untils. I think, what a shame. Time should weep for having spent me without you.

Thank you for giving me your arm and those four hours that I now understand you did not have an endless supply of.

You are impossibly tall. Your tall intoxicates me. Your tall is nearly ridiculous. When I come back down from going on half-toe to kiss you, I yawn from the altitude adjustment.

I don’t believe in endings, happy or sad, so my relationships with you continue to this day. They are the kind of relationships you have with a pair of skis you know you’ll never have to strap to yourself again. Maybe you never really liked skiing, but enjoyed being a person who could say, “Looks like I’ll be hitting the slopes this weekend!” So you kept on even though it cost too much to get down a hill. Gave you windburn. I see nothing weird about keeping those skis in the basement. They offer a little nostalgia for crappier times. More importantly, they serve as a reminder that I no longer have to ski.

Faith to you was more clay than mortar, and if you could interpret the gospel, so could I. So should anyone. If God wasn’t mad at you for drinking wine and chain-smoking and being a homosexual, he might forgive me for stealing a kitten and trying to hide it under a blanket in the back of our station wagon. Certainly that God was preferable to others who wouldn’t let you in Heaven if you said bad words or drank Mountain Dew.

I hear people say, “It happened for a reason,” or “It’s part of God’s plan,” and I wish that made sense to me but it doesn’t.