I read the following paragraph today and fell in love with it (it can't break my heart, so I think I'm pretty safe). It may be found on page 43 of Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I thought it very timely too since tomorrow begins April for us. Enjoy:
"April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot wrote, by which I think he meant (among other things) that springtime makes people crazy. We expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. I agree, and would further add: Who cares? Every spring I go there anyway, around the bend, unconditionally. I'm a soul on ice flung out on a rock in the sun, where the needles that pierced me begin to melt all as one."
Hopefully I'm not doomed for life, eh?
By the way, I'm only 50 pages into the book, but I think I'd already recommend it. Read it.
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