Rachel Joyce (writer) - The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2012)

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Beginnings could happen more than once, or in different ways.

Rachel Joyce
Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

Rachel Joyce
But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.

Rachel Joyce
The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time.

Rachel Joyce
People would make the decisions they wished to make and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.

Rachel Joyce
He understood that in walking to atone for the mistakes he had made, it was also his journey to accept the strangeness of others.

Rachel Joyce
But maybe it's what the world needs. A little less sense, and a little more faith.

Rachel Joyce
You got up, and you did something. And if trying to find a way when you don't even know you can get there isn't a small miracle; then I don't know what is.

Rachel Joyce
After the two drinks, she felt warm inside, and slightly indistinct at the edges.

Rachel Joyce
You could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.

Rachel Joyce
The least planned part of the journey, however, was the journey itself.

Rachel Joyce
If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.

Rachel Joyce
The past was the past; there was no escaping your beginnings.

Rachel Joyce
I miss her all the time. I know in my head that she has gone. the only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It's like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it's there and keep falling in. After a while, it's still there, but you learn to walk round it.

Rachel Joyce
People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that.

Rachel Joyce