Rachel Joyce
Rachel Joyce
miracle trying way
You got up, and you did something. And if trying to find a way when you don't even know you can get there isn't a small miracle; then I don't know what is.
journey
The least planned part of the journey, however, was the journey itself.
difficult cease supposed-to-be
But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.
mistake journey accepting
He understood that in walking to atone for the mistakes he had made, it was also his journey to accept the strangeness of others.
way different happens
Beginnings could happen more than once, or in different ways.
able way ordinary
you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.
thinking feet reason
If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I'm going to get there. I've begun to think we sit far more than we're supposed to." He smiled. "Why else would we have feet?
real thinking different
Beginnings could happen more than once or in different ways. You could think you were starting something afresh, when actually what you were doing was carrying on as before. He had faced his shortcomings and overcome them and so the real business of walking was happening only now.
unique stranger being-human
Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.
hurt people decision
...People would make the decisions they wished to make and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.
accepting no-hope ifs
If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.
mad no-hope ifs
If we don't go mad once in a while, there's no hope.
mind have-faith humans
There is so much to the human mind we don't understand. But, you see, if you have faith, you can do anything.
stars moon eyelashes
... He went under the stars, and the tender light of the moon, when it hung like an eyelash and the tree trunks shone like bones. He walked through wind and weather, and beneath sun-bleached skies. It seemed to Harold that he had been waiting all his life to walk. He no longer knew how far he had come, but only that he was going forward. The pale Cotswold stone became the red brick of Warwickshire, and the land flattened into middle England. Harold reached his hand to his mouth to brush away a fly, and felt a beard growing in thick tufts. Queenie would live. He knew it.