They say it's good to let your grudges go, but I don't know, I'm quite fond of my grudge. I tend it like a little pet.
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Liane Moriarty
Liane Moriarty (born 15 November 1966) is an Australian author. She is the older sister of author Jaclyn Moriarty. 2CareerEdit After leaving school, Moriarty worked in advertising and marketing at a legal publishing company. She then ran her own company for a while before taking work as a freelance advertising copywriter. In 2004, after obtaining a master's degree at Macquarie University in Sydney her first novel Three Wishes, written as part of the degree, was published. Five further novels have been published. Moriarty lives in Sydney with her husband, Adam, a former farmer from Tasmania who worked in agricultural marketing, and two children, George and Ann
'That doesn't sound like a school trivia night,' said Mr.s Patty Ponder to Marie Antoinette, 'That sounds like a riot.'
Every day is a gift, Jake. Of course sometimes it’s a really horrible gift that you don’t want.
A marriage is hard work and sometimes it’s a bit of a bore. It’s like housework. It’s never finished. You’ve just got to grit your teeth and keep working away at it, day after day.
Love is a decision. That’s right. A decision. Not a feeling. That’s what you young people don’t realize. That’s why you’re always off divorcing each other.
'Do you really think we can get away with it?'
It feels like you can’t breathe, but you actually are breathing. It feels like you’ll never stop crying, but you actually will.
A son is a son until he takes him a wife; a daughter is a daughter for all of her life.
Then he kissed her so deeply and so completely that she felt like she was falling, floating, spiraling down, down, down, like Alice in Wonderland.
She longed to feel something momentous. Sometimes her life seemed so little.
One day you’ll turn forty and you’ll slowly realize you don’t feel the eyes anymore, and the freedom is a relief, but you’ll also sort of miss it, and when a truck driver whistles at you while you’re crossing the road, you’ll think, Really? For me?
Weren’t women allowed to be sexist for the next two thousand years or so, until they’d evened up the score?
She wanted to be falling in love, not trying to fix a broken relationship. She wanted to be someone’s first choice, not their second.
Did one act define who you were forever? Did one evil act as a teenager counteract twenty years of marriage, of good marriage, twenty years of being a good husband and a good father? Murder and you are a murderer. That was how it worked for other people. For strangers.
It feels like you can’t breathe, but you actually are breathing. It feels like you’ll never stop crying, but you actually will.
The words 'I'm sorry' felt like an insult. You said 'I'm sorry' when you bumped against someone's supermarket trolley. There need to be bigger words.
Was there anything better than to be wanted? Was that all anyone really needed?
This was how you lived with a terrible secret. You just did it. You pretended everything was fine. You ignored the deep, cramplike pain in your stomach. You somehow anesthetized yourself so that nothing felt that bad, but nothing felt that good either.
When you were young you talked about ‘falling in love’ with such amusing gravity, as if it were an actual recordable event, when what was it really? Chemicals. Hormones. A trick of the mind.
It seemed to her everyone had too much self-protective pride to truly strip down to their souls in front of their long-term partners. It was easier to pretend there was nothing more to know, to fall into an easygoing companionship.