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Quote by Veronica Henriques

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Love from a convict.

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Veronica Henriques

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“The Florida side of my family is huge. People married young. Were Fruitful. Multiplied. As a kid a family fish fry might see 50 gather in someone's First District yard. A great-uncle frying mullet. Adults in the shade as kids played. Games of tag with complex rules. Jumping Live Oak roots. Flinging Chinaberries. You'd limp to the shade bruised and breathless. Hear a story about a cousin caught stealing hogs. Quickly get sent away – "Go play! This is Grown People Business!" We'd head back out. Climb trees. Make palm frond swords. Years passed. I grew up and found that most of those relatives were gone. I had missed the Grown People Business.”

FamilyGrowing UpRegret
Book:Some Books Are Not For Sale
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“I had always been in love with someone. It was the only thing that made it feasible to live that way, getting up at six and remaining conscious until late at night. It was like religion for medieval people. It gave you energy to face injustice, powerlessness, and drudgery. The guys I was in love with always ignored me, but were never unkind. There was something abstract and gentle about the feeling of being ignored, a feeling of being spared, an impossibility of anything happening, which was consonant with my understanding of love. In theory, of course, I knew love could be reciprocated. It was something that happened, often, to other people. But I was unlike other people in so many ways.”

LoveRomanceReligionGrowing UpHigh SchoolCoping
Book:Either/or
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“There's this little area outside by a creek, because I think every single place is by some kind of creek in Georgia, and apparently we're hanging out there. Will is the only guy from the other team here. It strikes me as odd, then, that we've cordoned ourselves off from each other because of these random group assignments. But we have. When I walk up, arms linked with Riya, Andrew glances at me and his face darkens.”

Growing UpComing Of AgeDomestic ViolenceFoodieGourmetNonjudgmentalChef CultureXenophobia Or Apartheid
Book:The Art of French Kissing
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“Hidden behind a veil of velvet shadows pooling beneath low-hanging branches, Violet waited until Em had turned the corner of the path toward the sunlight, then collected the gifts. Wool black as night, glass like ice threaded on silk, and a jangle of pins the color of last autumn's leaves. She held each reverently, the potential of transformation shining in each. The girl had changed, her soft freckled face gaining the planes of an adult's and the sharp timbre of her laugh softening, transformed by the magic of the earthbound that couldn't touch Fae. But something of Fae remained in the girl-turned-woman, a thread binding them together as surely as blood might have. Violet smiled softly, pride in the girl she'd sent from Fae into her earthbound fate swelling like the bloom of magic.”

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“The tune of truth resounded in the hinterland of my mind, crooning to me that the tapestry of the past had long since been unraveled, that the threads of childhood bliss had been reassembled into quilts of angst and stress. Clinging to the past was like trying to hold on to water. But it was comforting to know that at one point in time, all of us had welcomed each day with cheers. All of us had loved life more than we craved death.”

Growing UpChildhoodMemoirComing Of AgeAngst
Book:Scarlet Butterfly
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