Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Sarah Addison Allen

Quote by Sarah Addison Allen

“But she stopped herself. That wouldn't make it right. You didn't forgive because it was the only choice you thought you had. That didn't make it forgiveness, that made it desperation. She'd always been too desperate about Jake. Always.”

Quote by Sarah Addison Allen

Work

The Sugar Queen

In this engaging story, readers are taken on a journey through the lives of the residents of a small town, where the annual Sugar Queen contest serves as a backdrop for a series of interconnected narratives. The contest, which celebrates the town's sugar beet industry, brings together a diverse group of characters, each with their own dreams, desires, and secrets. As the contest unfolds, the characters' lives intertwine, revealing the undercurrents of ambition, love, and the human condition. more

Author

Sarah Addison Allen
Sarah Addison Allen

Sarah Addison Allen is an American author born in 1971. Her works are known for their fantasy and romance elements, which have won the hearts of readers. more

You May Also Like

“Sex Games: What Men Really Think About Sex Partners (Sexuality, Cheating”

“She only modelled for him once,' Max said stubbornly, leaning the canvases back against the wall and replacing the sheet. 'Once, twice or umpteen times, it's proof she knew Spataro... how shall we put it?... on terms a man who loved her might resent.' 'There are lots of artists in Montparnasse, Appelby, and lots of artists' models.' 'I wouldn't like it. And I bet Sir Henry didn't like it either.' 'There was nothing between Corinne and Spataro.' 'That's the problem, isn't it?' Appelby pointed with the stem of his pipe at the shrouded paintings. 'There may have been *literally* nothing between them.”

“Hence [through No Child Left Behind] the state has been given power...to fire all teachers and principles. So here we have an unusual case in which the students are engaged in the performances, but the high stakes have been displaced onto the teachers who are preparing their charges for the exams.”

“Happiness There's just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the finest garment, which you saved for an occasion you could not imagine, and you weep night and day to know that you were not abandoned, that happiness saved its most extreme form for you alone. No, happiness is the uncle you never knew about, who flies a single-engine plane onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes into town, and inquires at every door until he finds you asleep midafternoon as you so often are during the unmerciful hours of your despair. It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street with a birch broom, to the child whose mother has passed out from drink. It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker, and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots in the night. It even comes to the boulder in the perpetual shade of pine barrens, to rain falling on the open sea, to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.”