Lea Hernandez

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A Prayer for Owen...
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by John Irving (Goodreads Author)
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Vi er brødrene Ei...
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Scattered Minds: ...
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Lillian Fishman
“Was she never divided, not even for a moment, between the parts of herself that she loved and the parts that scared her?”
Lillian Fishman, Acts of Service

John Steinbeck
“But you said you didn’t love out father. How can you have faith in him if you didn’t love him?”
“Maybe that’s the reason.” Adam said slowly, feeling his way. “Maybe if I had loved him I would have been jealous of him. You were. Maybe – maybe love makes you suspicious and doubting. Is it true that when you love a woman you are never sure – never sure of her because you aren’t sure of yourself? I can see pretty clearly. I can see how you loved him and what it did to you. I did not love him. Maybe he loved me. He tested and hurt me and punished me and finally he sent me out like a sacrifice, maybe to make up for something. But he did not love you, and so he had faith in you. Maybe – why, maybe it’s a kind of reverse.”
John Steinbeck

Lillian Fishman
“I remember the feeling that she meant: the sense that men were alien, that if I were to foster any intimacy with a man it would be both despite and because of the fact that I could only be a body to him. And I had been right to be afraid. How can a body be safe when it's only a body? How can we expect that no stranger will be tempted to torch an empty house?”
Lillian Fishman, Acts of Service

Lillian Fishman
“We love what disturbs us if it chooses us and tells us how we matter”
Lillian Fishman, Acts of Service

John Steinbeck
“When a child first catches adults out – when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not have divine intelligence, that their judgements are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just – his world falls into panic desolation.
The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child’s world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.”
John Steinbeck, East of Eden

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