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Quote by Patricia Ryan

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The Black Sheep

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Author

Patricia Ryan
Patricia Ryan

Patricia Ryan, born on August 9, 1954, is an accomplished writer whose works span various literary genres. Known for her unique perspective and profound insights, her writing has garnered acclaim for its emotional depth and social commentary. more

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“You're letting me go?" He curled his upper lip, his expression painfully bitter as he took a step back from me. "Apparently... I never had a hold of you." He turned sharply, and without another word striding down the street into the dark. Braden never once looked back and that was a good thing. If he had, he'd have seen Jocelyn Butler crying real tears for the first time in a long time, and he would have known that I'd lied. And lied big. For anyone who saw me, knew they were watching a heart in the process of it breaking.”

LoveHeartCryTearsSadBreaking
Book:On Dublin Street
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“If your eyes can not cry, then your gut will." The head and heart may be in denial of your human needs, but the gut will always carry the wisdom of your needs met and unmet, and thusly respond.”

WisdomCryDenialEyesHuman NeedsGut FeelingsGut
Book:What's Behind Your Belly Button? A Psychological Perspective of the Intelligence of Human Nature and Gut Instinct
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“Frodo gave a cry, and there was, fallen upon his knees at the chasm's edge. But Gollum, dancing like a mad thing, held aloft the ring, a finger still thrust within its circle. "Precious, precious, precious!" Gollum cried. "My Precious! O my Precious!" And with that, even as his eyes were lifted up to gloat on his prize, he stepped too far, toppled, wavered for a moment on the brink, and then with a shriek he fell. Out of the depths came his last wail precious, and he was gone.”

CryMadFrodo BagginsTolkienThe Lord Of The RingsRingFingerSamwise GamgeeThe Return Of The KingChasmGollumDancMount DoomThe One Ring J R R Tolkien
Book:The Return of the King
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“One weekend it rained for 48 hours without stopping. The rain beat like bony fingers against the window panes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Fungus was growing on the walls. I polished off a bottle of gin sitting huddled over the two-bar electric fire and wrote a poem, one of the few that has lasted through the moves and the years. It is called 'Where Can I Go?' If this is not the place where tears are understood where do I go to cry? If this is not the place where my spirits can take wing where do I go to fly? If this is not the place where my feelings can be heard where do I go to speak? If this is not the place where you’ll accept me as I am where can I go to be me? If this is not the place where I can try and learn and grow where can I go to laugh and cry?”

SadnessCryAcceptancePoemDepressionMental HealthRejectionLearnAlcoholismAnorexiaAlcoholicAnorexicAnoretic
Book:Today I'm Alice: Nine Personalities, One Tortured Mind
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