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Quote by Goldy Moldavsky

“He asked himself why he wanted his mother back. And his answer was because he was lonely. Because there was now a big, gaping hole where his heart used to be. But it wasn't loneliness, not really. Now that his mom was gone, Hart realized, he was completely without love in his life. It came to him with so much clarity, what he needed to wish for. He couldn't boil it down to anything smaller. He only needed a little anyway. It would go a long way. He put the seed in the ground, closed his tear-soaked eyes, and spoke his wish out loud. "I wish for love." The next day, he walked into a gas station store and found his love there waiting for him.”

Quote by Goldy Moldavsky

Book:Of Earthly Delights
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Of Earthly Delights

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Goldy Moldavsky

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Book:Feast of Sorrow
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“I was so caught up in the discussion that I almost didn't notice Apicata sneaking shy glances at young Casca. Celera had, however, and was watching with amusement. She winked at me when she saw I had also noticed their interest. As Casca mouthed a sweet nothing to Apicata, Celera seized the moment. "Apicata, I understand you have begun reading the Histories of Herodotus. Tell me, how do you like them?" She almost choked on her honey water, not expecting to be addressed. Casca averted his eyes when he saw me looking in his direction and both of them turned as red as the cushions upon which we were seated. Apicata recovered quickly. "I've almost finished them. Father was entertaining Annaeus Seneca and when he heard I had not yet read it, he sent me a copy." "Have you reached the part about how the Ethiopians bury their dead in crystal coffins?" Casca asked, turning his body to rest his chin on both hands and stare at her directly. "Oh, yes, I'm long past that! I'm reading about how Xerxes had the waters of Hellespont whipped for not obeying him." Her eyes sparkled. "Wait till you reach the Battle of Thermopylae. What a heroic story!" The exchange continued for a few minutes with additional commentary from the others, who were oblivious to the undercurrent between the youths.”

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Book:Feast of Sorrow
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“There are other men who would be better suited to marrying Apicata. But I admire your gall. Give me one more reason why I should consider your petition, though it will likely not sway me." Casca paused, his eyes glancing somewhere in the vicinity of Apicius's knees. I thought he was going to falter but then he lifted his gaze, and when he spoke I knew that if Cupid was not with him, Venus certainly was. "Apicius, I should marry your daughter because we are meant to be. We are like rose wine and oysters, like truffles and pepper, like lentils and chestnuts or crane with turnip. We belong together like mullet and dill, milk and snails, suckling pig and silphium. You know the truth of their pairings and it is that truth I hold up to you now. Apicata and I are like spoon and plate. One is worth little without the other.”

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Book:Feast of Sorrow
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“Outside, the night was soft and fresh. There was a half-moon shining brightly in a field of stars, a glowing ring of light surrounding it, and it had made a trail across the bay that showed in places through the darker screen of trees. They walked in silence, and she breathed the mingled scents of wildflowers sleeping in the shadows, and the salt air of the sea. He had not let go of her hand. She did not want him to. They did not leave the clearing but at length they reached its edge, where rustling branches stretched above them and the light and noise and music of the barn seemed far away. One heart-shaped leaf fell from a nearby tree and landed on his shoulder and unthinkingly she lifted her free hand to brush it off before it marked the white coat she had worked so hard and long to clean. She felt him looking down at her, and glancing up self-consciously she started to explain. And lost the words. And then he bent his head and kissed her. Everything around her seemed to stop, and still, and cease to matter. She could not have said how long it lasted. Not long, probably. It was a gentle kiss but at the same time fierce and sure and full of all the pent-up feelings she herself had fought these past months, and now she knew he had felt them just as she had, and had fought them, too. It was a great release to give up fighting. Give up everything, and float in the sensation.”

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Book:Bellewether
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“From that position he had a clear view of Lydia within her garden, working with an admirably single-minded steadiness. She'd changed her hair. She normally pulled all of it straight back and off her face and bound it simply, letting part of its coiled length hang down beneath the plain white muslin of her cap. But on this morning she had not been so severe with it. He liked the fuller, softer waves of brown about her forehead and her temples. "So," he told Pierre, "it would be useful for me, while I'm here, to learn more English, so that in the future I can speak to those I capture." "You are maybe overconfident, Marine, to think you will return to war." "I'll be exchanged eventually." With a shrug he said, "So then in English, tell me, would you tell someone that it's nice, the way they wear their hair today?" Pierre's glance held amusement. "This is how you deal with men you capture, eh? You compliment their hair? It's very threatening and very tough, I'm sure it leaves them terrified." He hadn't had much cause for smiling since coming here, but Jean-Philippe felt his features relaxing now into a genuine smile at the other man's dry remark, and without meaning to, he looked again toward Lydia. And found her looking straight back at him. Once he'd been hit an inch under his heart with a bullet- there had been no pain but he'd lost all the wind from his lungs and been knocked right off balance, and what he felt now felt like that. This time, though, despite its swift and sudden strike, the feeling was decidedly more pleasurable. As he sent a nod across the clearing to acknowledge her, his smile of its own volition broadened like a schoolboy's. He was letting down his guard, he knew, allowing the Acadian to witness where his interest- and his weakness- lay, but for some reason, standing in the sunshine with her watching him, he'd ceased to care.”

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Book:Bellewether
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“Do you ever feel your mother?" Lydia's pencil stilled. "Yes," she said, quietly. "Sometimes I do." Later that evening, when supper was finished, she took up her mending and curled herself into her mother's old chair with its leather seat slung in the low X-shaped frame like a welcoming lap. She could almost imagine her mother's arms holding her, here in the room with the warmth of the fire and the light of the candles, the wind rising hard at the glass of the window. The men were still sitting around the long table in cross conversations, her brother and Mr. Ramírez discussing the length of the Bellewether's deck, while her father and Mr. de Brassart debated the merits of some play by Shakespeare, and Mr. de Sabran sat back and observed. All the voices ran into and over each other and blended like billowy waves folding into the sea, and she struggled to stay on the surface while all of those waves with the troubles they carried went by. "Feel them passing?" her mother asked, rocking her gently. Except they weren't passing. They bore her relentlessly down like great weights on her shoulders until she was sinking. And then in place of her mother's arms she felt the strong ones of Mr. de Sabran, protecting her as they had done in New York, and it suddenly wasn't so terrible, drowning. She held him and drifted down into the dark.”

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“I thought of To Kill a Mockingbird. I had finished reading it one night in a bunker, my knees bent and hunched together while mortars hit the ground, the glow of a cigarette and the moon as my only light. Standing there now, chain-smoking, I felt like I finally understood the ending.”

Michael AnthonyCivilianizedMassachusetts AuthorTo Kill A Mocking BirdIraq War DescriptionWar Writing
Book:Civilianized: A Young Veteran's Memoir
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