1
" No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes—forming patterns we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'd mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection), but still unique. "
― Neil Gaiman , American Gods (American Gods, #1)
7
" Advice" I must do as you do? Your way I ownIs a very good way, and still,There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,One over, one under the hill.You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,That the prudent choose each time;And you think me reckless and rash to-dayBecause I prefer to climb.Your path is the right one, and so is mine.We are not like peas in a pod,Compelled to lie in a certain line,Or else be scattered abroad.'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,If we all just went one way;Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,Though they lead apart today.You like the shade, and I like the sun;You like an even pace,I like to mix with the crowd and run,And then rest after the race.I like danger, and storm, and strife,You like a peaceful time;I like the passion and surge of life,You like its gentle rhyme.You like buttercups, dewy sweet,And crocuses, framed in snow;I like roses, born of the heat,And the red carnation's glow.I must live my life, not yours, my friend,For so it was written down;We must follow our given paths to the end,But I trust we shall meet--in town. "
10
" You don’t fucking get it, do you, Sparks?” Out of sheer frustration, Ben thwacked the wall with his hand. Hard. So hard his palm stung. “I love you. I am so goddamned, madly in love with you, I can’t see straight.” Ben’s voice resonated through the offices, echoed in his own ears. “You’re the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I imagine before I fall asleep. I dream about you. Every single night. I live to see you, at the office, at home, anywhere. I just need to see your face. Hold your body. Touch your skin. I need you, Mel. More than I need air. You can’t walk away from me. You can’t love someone else.” He gulped in a breath and almost choked on the emotion clogging his throat, so when he spoke again his voice was scratchy, and much, much softer. “I screwed up. I made you choose. And I’m sorry. So desperately, pathetically sorry for that. But I can’t let you go. I can’t let him have you, because you’re mine. You were made for me, like I was made for you. We’re two peas in a pod, sweetness. We’re the same, you and I. We’re meant to be together. "
― , Office Affair
16
" Roses climbed the shed, entwined with dark purple clematis, leaves as glossy as satin. There were no thorns. Patience's cupboard was overflowing with remedies, and the little barn was often crowded with seekers. The half acre of meadow was wild with cosmos and lupine, coreopsis, and sweet William. Basil, thyme, coriander, and broad leaf parsley grew in billowing clouds of green; the smell so fresh your mouth watered and you began to plan the next meal. Cucumbers spilled out of the raised beds, fighting for space with the peas and beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers.
The cart was righted out by the road and was soon bowed under glass jars and tin pails of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias, and salvia. Pears, apples, and out-of-season apricots sat in balsa wood baskets in the shade, and watermelons, some with pink flesh, some with yellow, all sweet and seedless, lined the willow fence. "
― Ellen Herrick , The Sparrow Sisters