Sometimes I say I don’t believe in God and Jesus and Mary. I’m a bad Catholic because I miss mass once in a while and I grumble when, at confession,
BETTY SMITHA lie was something you told because you were mean or a coward. A story was something you made up out of something that might have happened. Only you didn’t tell it like it was, you told it like you thought it should have been.
More Betty Smith Quotes
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People always think that happiness is a faraway thing,” thought Francie, “something complicated and hard to get.
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I came to a clear conclusion, and it is a universal one: To live, to struggle, to be in love with life–in love with all life holds, joyful or sorrowful–is fulfillment. The fullness of life is open to all of us.
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Is it not so that a son what is bad to his mother is bad to his wife?
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People looking up at her–at her smooth pretty vivacious face–had no way of knowing about the painfully articulated resolves formulating in her mind.
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As she read, at peace with the world and happy as only a little girl could be with a fine book and a little bowl of candy, and all alone in the house, the leaf shadows shifted and the afternoon passed.
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Look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.
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Forgiveness is a gift of high value. Yet its cost is nothing.
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As long as one can suffer, one is living….live and suffer until life is gone.
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There had to be dark and muddy waters so that the sun could have something to background it’s flashing glory.
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No. I don’t want to need anybody. I want someone to need me … I want someone to need me.
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Oh time…time, pass so that I forget! Oh time, Great Healer, pass over me and let me forget.
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But she needs me more than she needs him and I guess being needed is almost as good as being loved. Maybe better.
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It’s a beautiful religion and I wish I understood it more. No, I don’t want to understand it all. It’s beautiful because it’s always a mystery.
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“I wouldn’t want that to get around, Annie.” “You don’t mean that, Carl.” “Ah, we might as well call them beanies, Annie.” “Why?” “When in Rome do as the Romans do.” “Do they call them beanies in Rome?” she asked artlessly. “This is the silliest conversation.
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She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie’s secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father stumbling home drunk. She was all of these things and of something more…
BETTY SMITH