147 Quotes by Glenn Haybittle

They always told each other about the parts of the day they had spent apart, sketching in detail so the other could see it, so it became a memory they seemed to share in common. They were good at talking. Sharing stories. Everything he did only seemed to take root when he told her about it. There were times when he arrived home as breathless as an inspired poet with the urgency to talk to her.

Father love is ancient and austere, like mountains. It is difficult to accept the collapsing of a mountain.

In life, the narrative must go on. We’re prisoners of our storylines. No one quite knows how or why they develop. And we have to cope with them as best we can, even when they push us over a new frontier.

He suspects you don’t truly know anyone until you’ve seen how they cope with fear.

Perhaps it is both the tragedy of life and the blessing of life that most moments only happen once.

The moon seems to shine back at her the increased need of intimacy, of secrecy and seclusion the war has made everyone feel.

The painting you saw in your mind was beautiful when it was your secret. Once it’s on the canvas it’s as if someone else has got hold of your secret and sullied it, distorted it.

When he thinks of his wife now it is like walking barefoot down steps to the sea at night. A secretive act. A moment of wonder he treats with caution as though shielding a buffeted flame.

The ripped open houses with their exposed arrangements, their laid bare secrets, are like portraits. Each one has its own individual facial expression. More identity is on display in the midst of the destruction. More intimacy. It makes her realise how vulnerable these achievements are. Identity. Intimacy.