Alexandra Ripley
Alexandra Ripley
Alexandra Ripley, née Braidwas an American writer best known as the author of Scarlett, written as a sequel to Gone with the Wind. Her first novel was Who's the Lady in the President's Bed?. Charleston, her first historical novel, was a bestseller, as were her next books On Leaving Charleston, The Time Returns, and New Orleans Legacy...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth8 January 1934
CountryUnited States of America
men hands color
Painting dissolves the forms at its command, or tends to; it melts them into color. Drawing, on the other hand, goes about resolving forms, giving edge and essence to things. To see shapes clearly, one outlines them--whether on paper or in the mind. Therefore, Michelangelo, a profoundly cultivated man, called drawing the basis of all knowledge whatsoever.
spiritual journey answers
Personal answers to ultimate questions. That is what we seek.
color painting form
Painting dissolves the forms at its command ... it melts them into color.
art brain restoration
So-called restoration is at least as tricky as brain surgery. Most pictures expire under scalpel and sponge.
heart angel moon
This moment, this being, is the thing. My life is all life in little. The moon, the planets, pass around my heart. The sun, now hidden by the round bulk of this earth, shines into me, and in me as well. The gods and the angels both good and bad are like the hairs of my own head, seemingly numberless, and growing from within. I people the cosmos from myself, it seems, yet what am I? A puff of dust, or a brief coughing spell, with emptiness and silence to follow.
adventure giving
I have but one life to give to adventure.
mother fighting land
To anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother. It's the only thing that lasts, that's worth working for, for fighting for
heart rams break
If only' repeated again and again in her head like a battering ram...'if only' could break your heart.
home people long
You belong with me, Scarlett, haven't you figured that out? And the world is where we belong, all of it. We're not home-and-hearth people. We're the adventurers, the buccaneers, the blockade runners. Without challenge, we're only half alive. We can go anywhere, and as long as we're together, it will belong to us. But, my pet, we'll never belong to it. That's for other people, not for us.
caring world littles
One of the injustices of the world was that it was so easy to make the innocent and caring ones happy with so little.
would-be reason bother
And if things always stayed the same, Scarlett, what would be the reason for bothering to draw breath?
air years land
It's the centuries, Scarlett darling. All the life lived there, all the joy and all the sorrow, all the feasts and battles, they're in the air around and the land beneath you. It's time, years beyond our counting weighing without weight on the earth. You cannot see it or smell it or hear it or touch it, but you feel it brushing your skin and speaking without sound. Time. And mystery.
past maybe-tomorrow yesterday
But you know who you are when you're on your own out there in all that emptiness. There's no past, no holding on to the scraps that are all you've got left. Everything is that minute, or maybe tomorrow, not yesterday.
book cereal deodorant
Books have become products, like cereal or perfume or deodorant.