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Quote by Gabrielle Hamilton

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Next of Kin: A Memoir

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Author

Gabrielle Hamilton
Gabrielle Hamilton

Gabrielle Hamilton is a renowned chef, best known for her restaurant Prune in New York City. Her culinary style blends French and American elements, emphasizing seasonality and local ingredients. Hamilton's influence in the culinary world extends beyond her restaurant, as evidenced by her memoir 'Blood, Bones & Butter'. more

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“To love, and for his love to be accepted, yes. It was in fact painful, the relief of all that compression suddenly, to say the words aloud, and hear her saying them, to be loved by her, it was so needed that it actually hurt. Not even a feeling of unmixed happiness, but of happiness that was strongly and confusingly mixed with many other feelings. Sadness, missing his father, and a kind of shame somehow because each passing day seemed to bring Ivan further away from him and the life they used to have together. A life that was receding increasingly into the past--into the realm of childhood and adolescence. The realization that his adulthood, into which he was entering now so definitively, and which would last all the rest of his life, would have to be lived without his father. That he was becoming a person his father would never know.”

“A soft, tender leaf fell off the branch of a tree. I picked it up—it looked at me, as if to whisper; “How did I grow? How did I dance with wind and breeze, Play with birds, and laugh with fellow leaves?” How much had it endured—rain, storms, blazing sun, Noisy roads and shivery winter nights? What were its favourite tastes, its dearest friends, The family that cradled it? None could help it to stay a little longer. At last, it was time to say goodbye. I held it with all the care my hands could offer. It smiled, resting in my palm— Not an end, but a journey to a new universe, Eager to taste fresh wonders. Yet I could not let it go. I restored it, a tiny, radiant fragment of nature, A messenger of joy and love. I gazed once more, and it glimmered quietly, A universe held in a single leaf.”

“i knew you were going to try and kill yourself before you did it. i knew because before all this happened you were the only person my seven-year-old nephew with asperger's ever let hug him. you were eighteen and you were just shining, your even brown skin competing with the bright blue sky for my attention. god, you were perfect. i was in love with the idea that finally we had given birth to a generation that didn't have to spend their adult lives recovering from their childhoods. you weren't going to drown yourself in anything, you were just going to smile and fight in some mythological honourable way we'd all only imagined. then i found out your mama was about to die and every time you looked me in the eye i wanted to cry, because i knew there was a diagnosed train wreck coming your way and i didn't know how someone so perfect could survive.”

“The Mortal Tempest by Stewart Stafford In the tranquil, shaded crypt, Life's storms batter no more, Historia, the isolated remnant, Of an interior remembrance. The howling gale, a mourner's cry, Icy tendrils reaching to exert, The only possible pressure, On a shell in heedless slumber. A post-mortem death wish, Phantom projection of the morbid, To vacate an urn and soar, Swirling ash in the mortal tempest. © 2021, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”