Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.
Interpretation
This quote suggests that true essence and self-identity are deeply personal and may be diminished by excessive sharing.
Edna O'Brien's quote reflects on the notion that life is a personal mystery and that the more we expose ourselves and our inner selves to others, the less we have left for our own core identity. It draws a parallel between personal essence and the heart of the fruit, highlighting that while it may be tempting to share, one must be cautious as there are flaws and hollowness in many, suggesting the importance of preserving one's inner value.
In practice
In a motivational speech about self-discovery.
Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.
That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.
Cities, in many ways, are the best repositories for a love affair. You are in a forest or a cornfield, you are walking by the seashore, footprint after footprint of trodden sand, and somehow the kiss or the spoken covenant gets lost in the vastness and indifference of nature. In a city there are places to remind us of what has been.
Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.
Oh, love, what an unreasoning creature it grew to be.
Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.
In our own hearts, we mold the whole world's hereafters; and in our own hearts we fashion our own gods.
We are star stuff which has taken its destiny into its own hands.
Prayer is the slender nerve that moves the muscle of omnipotence.
Our hope is not in the man we put in the White House but in the Man we put on the Cross.
God never made his work for man to mend.
In the sphere of thought, absurdity and perversity remain the masters of the world, and their dominion is suspended only for brief periods.
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