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Carolyn Parkhurst

Carolyn Parkhurst Books

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“Washing the Dead is an illuminating and intricately layered novel about the complicated legacies that pass from mother to daughter, and about the ways that understanding our own history helps make us who we are. Michelle Brafman is an insightful writer who never falters or flinches in her quest to uncover the hearts of her characters.”

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Author:Carolyn Parkhurst
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“All this to say: I am forty-three years old. I may yet live another forty. What do I do with those years? How do I fill them without Lexy? When I come to tell the story of my life, there will be a line, creased and blurred and soft with age, where she stops. If I win the lottery, if I father a child, if I lose the use of my legs, it will be after she has finished knowing me. "When I get to Heaven", my grandmother used to say, widowed at thirty-nine, "your grandfather won't even recognize me.”

IfsYearsMayChildrenStoriesUseAgeUsedThreeFatherWinningHeavenLosesLinesKnowingLegsFinishedNineThirtyGrandmotherFortyThree YearsGrandfatherMy GrandmotherLotteryStory Of My LifeThree Year OldsWidowed
Book:The Dogs of Babel
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“The conclusion I have reached is that, above all, dogs are witnesses. They are allowed access to our most private moments. They are there when we think we are alone. Think of what they could tell us. They sit on the laps of presidents. They see acts of love and violence, quarrels and feuds, and the secret play of children. If they could tell us everything they have seen, all of the gaps of our lives would stitch themselves together.”

IfsThinkingChildrenPlayMomentsTogetherPresidentSecretOur LivesViolenceDogAccessConclusionWitnessGapsQuarrelsLapActs Of LoveStitchesFeuds
Book:The Dogs of Babel
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“I sing of a woman with ink on her hands and pictures hidden beneath her hair. I sing of a dog with skin like velvet pushed the wrong way.I sing of the shape a fallen body makes in the dirt beneath a tree, and I sing of an ordinary man who is wanted to know things no human being could tell him.This is the true beginning.”

KnowsMenWayHumansBodyHandsWantedHuman BeingsTreeDogHairShapesOrdinarySkinsFallenDirtInkWrong WayVelvetOrdinary Man
Book:The Dogs of Babel
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“How can it be, I wondered, that we can be lying in bed next to a person we love wholly and helplessly, a person we love more than our own breath, and still ache to think of the one who caused us pain all those years ago? It's the betrayal of this second heart of ours, its flesh tied off like a fingertip twined tightly round with a single hair, blue-tinged from lack of blood. The shameful squeeze of it.”

ThinkingYearsHeartPersonsStillsPainLyingNextBloodHairBedYears AgoBreathsBlueRoundsBetrayalFleshTiedAcheShamefulFingertips
Author:Carolyn Parkhurst
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“For so long, it was just my secret. It burned inside me, and I felt like I was carrying something important, something that made me who I was and made me different from everybody else. I took it with me everywhere, and there was never a moment when I wasn't aware of it. It was like I was totally awake, like I could feel every nerve ending in my body. Sometimes my skin would almost hurt from the force of it, that's how strong it was. Like my whole body was buzzing or something. I felt almost, I don't know, noble, like a medieval knight or something, carrying this secret love around with me.”

KnowsFeelsLongMadeImportantDifferentSometimesWholeMomentsBodyStrongForceFeltHurtSecretSkinsNobleAwakeNervesBurnedKnightsMedievalSecret Love
Book:Lost and Found: A Novel
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“It was September, and there was a crackly feeling to the air. I was saying something that was making her laugh, and I couldn't stop looking at her. It was a little bit chilly, and her cheeks were pink, and her dark hair was flowing around her face. All I wanted for the rest of my life was to keep making her laugh like that. Sometimes our arms brushed against each other as we walked, and it was like I could feel the touch for minutes after it happened.”

FeelsLittlesSometimesFeelingsWantedFacesBitsDarkLaughingHappenedAirMinutesHairArmsLittle BitCheeksSeptemberChillyDark Hair
Author:Carolyn Parkhurst
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“You wake up and you feel - what? Heaviness, an ache inside, a weight, yes. A soft crumpling of the flesh. A feeling like all the surfaces inside you have been rubbed raw. A voice in your head - no, not voices, not like hearing voices, nothing that crazy, just your own inner voice, the one that says 'Turn left at the corner' or 'Don't forget to stop at the post office,' only now it's saying, 'I hate myself.' It's saying, 'I want to die.'”

WantFeelsHas BeensFeelingsHateDiesTurnsLeftVoiceForgetCrazyOfficeWeightI HateWake UpSuicideCornersHearingSurfaceFleshPostsAcheInner VoiceWanting To DieSelf HarmPost OfficeHeavinessI Want To DieHate MyselfI Hate MyselfHearing Voices
Author:Carolyn Parkhurst
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“I've always known that the best part of writing occurs before you've picked up a pen. When a story exists only in your mind, its potential is infinite; it's only when you start pinning words to paper that it becomes less than perfect. You have to make your choices, set your limits. Start whittling away at the cosmos, and don't stop until you've narrowed it down to a single, ordinary speck of dirt. And in the end, what you've made is not nearly as glorious as what you've thrown away.”

WritingMindMadeEndsStoriesChoicesPerfectKnownLimitsPaperOrdinaryInfiniteGloriousThrownCosmosPensDirtSpecksWhittling
Author:Carolyn Parkhurst
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