Ann Brashares Quotes

The more I think of you, the less I think of you.

Craving that old sweet oneness yet dreading engulfment, wishing to be our mother's and yet be our own, we stormily swing from mood to mood, advancing and retreating-the quintessential model of two-mindedness.

Oftentimes we love the thing we hate and vice versa.

As much as I love boxing, I hate it. And as much as I hate it, I love it.

Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.

I hate, and yet must love the thing I hate.

I loved feeling special. I hated feeling special.

Only one thing bothered me: at this very moment, as they say, of inexplicable bliss there would be a sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach and my abdomen would be assailed by a melancholy, cold shivering. In the end I couldn't abide such happiness and ran away.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Two or three things I know for sure, and one of them is the way you can both hate and love something you are not sure you understand.

They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate.

I hated her now with a hatred more fatal than indifference because it was the other side of love.

Love commingled with hate is more powerful than love. Or hate.

Love is jealous, and ingenious in self-torture in proportion as it is pure and intense.

I would say that I have a love-hate relationship with almost everything in my life, including stand-up.

I both love and do not love; and am mad and not mad.

The jealous are possessed by a mad devil and a dull spirit at the same time.

I think people have this love-hate relationship with tennis. I also feel like that.

I have back-and-forth feelings about everything a lot - it's not limited to my albums.

There is nothing in the world more pitiable than an irresolute man, oscillating between two feelings, who would willingly unite the two and who does not perceive that nothing can unite them

It's lovely. I hate it.

It was troubling that one of the few people she trusted was a man she spent so much time avoiding

I'm optimistic yet disillusioned, hopeful yet frustrated.

She glared at him, feeling the old frustration. Sometimes in his presence she felt the deepest connection to him, and other times she felt completely alone-as though any bond to him was her own bitter imagination.