“Never act like you want it, darlin’. Act like you wouldn’t own it if they paid you. Tell them it’s dirty, broken…a useless thing. Then make an offer.”

Come on, Forney.’ Novalee, it’s a parasite.’ But it’s a tradition.’ It’s a parasite! And you expect people yo stand under it and kiss?’ Yes! it’s what people do with mistletoe.

Why does anyone lie? ‘Cause we’re scared or crazy, maybe just because we’re mean. I guess there’s a million reason to lie, and I might’ve told that many…but none like that.

And the needles of the pine trees, freshly washed to a deep, rich green, shimmered with droplets that blinked like clear crystals.

And while I’m talking to you, every second I’m talking, a second is passing. Gone. Count them up. Count them down. They’re gone. Each one bringing you closer to your dying time.

Novalee watched his lips shape the words…the sounds, like whispered secrets, hanging in the air.

Home is the place that’ll catch you when you fall. And we all fall.

Prayer cannot bring water to parched fields, or mend a broken bridge, or rebuild a ruined city; but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, and rebuild a weakened will.

When an unbaked pot is broken, the potter can use the mud to make a new one; but when a baked one is broken, he cannot do the same any longer

Remember: Life is short, break the rules (they were made to be broken) Forgive quickly, kiss slowly Love truly, laugh uncontrollably And never regret anything that makes you smile.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

I turn to right and left, in all the earth I see no signs of justice, sense or worth: A man does evil deeds, and all his days Are filled with luck and universal praise; Another’s good in all he does – he dies A wretched, broken man whom all despise.

The word ‘survivor’ carries a weight of remembrance that has broken the minds and bodies of more than a few men and women.

Oh what a wonderful soul so bright inside you. Got power to heal the sun’s broken heart, power to restore the moon’s vision too.

I’m one-hundred-fifty miles off Cape Horn, both autopilots are broken, and my boat is drifting toward one of the nastiest chunks of ocean on the face of the earth.