66 Quotes About Southern-writers

We are good at stories. We hoard them, like an old woman in a room full of boxes, but now and then we pull out our best, and spread them out. We talk of the bad years when the cotton didn't open, and the day my cousin Wanda was washed in the Blood. We buff our beloved ancestors until they are smooth of sin, and give our scoundrels a hard shake, although sometimes we can't remember exactly which is who.

What we have...is something most folks wait a lifetime for, and only touch for a heartbeat. They let go too quickly, or they're too scared to hold on, or they never see what's right in front of them. But we're going to hold on as tight as we can." - Jonah Walker

As Chloe pulled out of the drive, she realized the weapon next to her made her feel like she was more in control of the situation. As she drove down the Mississippi back roads, a sense of peace settled in her soul. Chloe knew it wasn’t just the .45 resting on her front seat that brought the feeling. It was more of an awareness of being whereshe belonged. But that was crazy.

I didn’t even know a piece of me was missing until I had her for the first time.

He avoided unpleasant topics until they had time to mellow with age; like bourbon, about a dozen years were needed to mellow the unpalatable.

Life can surprise you. You want something with every ounce of blood that flows in your veins, and then one day it's yours. Right there before you. Everything. You break out in a cold sweat with the undeniable realization that what you really want is home. Sometimes finding home is a long time coming. A long journey.

I do not want to livein a world without butterflies.A place where they only existin oil on canvas or silver trinkets on a chain,in language, legends we pass to the nextgeneration of memory-keepers,a place where tiny ghosts have painted wings.

I made your favorite." Nannie says, her elegant hand trembles,so subtle it hides behind a smile. She listenscarefully,responds quickly, eases the baked macaroni from the oven.We wash our hands with bars of smooth soap in delicate shapes.We are quiet, careful not to touch the glass of doors.We do not leave fingerprints here.

Golden framed and heavy, the painting.Ocean waves curled in suspended time,white-lipped and silent beneath brush-stroked bluesof sky. Gulls are captured there, mid-flight, fishing moments stolen in time, they soar without moving.