Quotes by Jojo Moyes

...I told him a story of two people. Two people who shouldnt have met, and who didnt like each other much when they did, but who found they were the only two people in the world who could possibly have understood each other.

The thing about being catapulted into a whole new life--or at least, shoved up so hard against someone elses life that you might as well have your face pressed against their window--is that it forces you to rethink your idea of who you are. Or how you might seem to other people.

Live boldly. Push yourself. Dont settle.

I turned in my seat. Will’s face was in shadow and I couldn’t quite make it out.‘Just hold on. Just for a minute.’‘Are you all right?’ I found my gaze dropping towards his chair, afraid some part of him was pinched, or trapped, that I had got something wrong.‘I’m fine. I just . . . ’I could see his pale collar, his dark suit jacket a contrast against it.‘I don’t want to go in just yet. I just want to sit and not have to think about . . . ’ He swallowed.Even in the half-dark it seemed effortful.‘I just . . . want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress. Just for a few minutes more.’I released the door handle.‘Sure.’I closed my eyes and lay my head against the headrest, and we sat there together for a while longer, two people lost in remembered music, half hidden in the shadow of a castle on a moonlit hill.

Just live well. Just live

And there it was. He knew it, and I knew it. There was nothing left for me to do. Do you know how hard it is to say nothing ? When every atom of you strains to do the opposite? I just tried to be, tried to absorb the man I loved through osmosis, tried to imprint what I had left of him on myself. I did not speak...

You only get one life. Its actually your duty to live it as fully as possible

I didnt like it when he looked at me like that. I could never escape the feeling that i was being compared to someone else.

Im not letting go of you.

Im not letting go of you - Sam

I want him to live if HE wants to live. If he doesnt, then by forcing him to carry on, you, me..... we become just another shitty bunch of people taking away his choices.

All Chelseas internet dates were gorgeous. Until she met them.

They were like animals, men. They found too much eye contact threatening.

I needed to tell him, silently, that things might change, grow, or fail, but that life did go on. That we were all part of some great cycle, some pattern that it was only Gods purpose to understand.

But now, inside the gallery, something happens to him. He finds his emotions gripped by the paintings, the huge, colorful canvases by Diego Rivera, the tiny, agonized self-portraits by Frida Kahlo, the woman Rivera loved. Fabien barely notices the crowds that cluster in front of the pictures.He stops before a perfect little painting in which she has pictured her spine as a cracked column. There is something about the grief in her eyes that wont let him look away. That is suffering, he thinks. He thinks about how long hes been moping about Sandrine, and it makes him feel embarrassed, self-indulgent. Theirs, he suspects, was not an epic love story like Diego and Fridas.He finds himself coming back again and again to stand in front of the same pictures, reading about the couples life, the passion they shared for their art, for workers rights, for each other. He feels an appetite growing within him for something bigger, better, more meaningful. He wants to live like these people. He has to make his writing better, to keep going. He has to.He is filled with an urge to go home and write something that is fresh and new and has in it the honesty of these pictures. Most of all he just wants to write. But what?

I worked out what would make me happy, and I worked out what I wanted to do, and I trained myself to do the job that would make those two things happen You make it sound so simple.It is simple, he said. The thing is, its also a lot of hard work. And people dont want to put in a lot of work.

I had never considered that you might miss a job like you missed a limb -- a constant, reflexive thing. I hadnt thought as well as the obvious fears about money, and your future, losing your job would make you feel inadequate, and a bit useless. That it would be harder to get up in the morning than you were rudely shocked in to consciousness by the alarm. That you might missed the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common with them.

Only you, Will Traynor, could tell a woman how to wear a bloody dress.

You know, you cant make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply... off.

I didnt say much; my head was still ringing with the music, and I didnt want it to fade. I kept thinking back to it, the way that Wills friend had been so lost in what he was playing. I hadnt realized that music could unlock things in you, could transport you to somewhere even the composer hadnt predicted. It left an imprint in the air around you, as if you carried its remnants with you when you went.