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“More than anything, he wanted to return to the house with the same look of peace that he'd seen on Pastor Harris's face, but he trudged through the sand, he couldn't help feeling like an amateur, someone searching for God's truths like a child searching for seashells.”
― Nicholas Sparks, The Last Song

“In June we picked the clover,
And sea-shells in July:
There was no silence at the door,
No word from the sky.

A hand came out of August
And flicked his life away:
We had not time to bargain, mope,
Moralize, or pray.”
― Cecil Day-Lewis, Overtures to Death and Other Poems

“It's bright pinky-white sand was made entirely of shell dust, like star dust, among which, if you sifted it with your fingers, were infant shells as small as the grains but perfectly shaped. Scattered over the surface were larger shells of many kinds and shapes, some as delicate as flower petals, others, though small, built to withstand any battering sea.”
― L.M. Boston, The Sea Egg

“Someday I will pick up shells of every colour
And probably even rob the sea of its wonder
Yet I won't find a single piece
That'd resemble the broken pieces I gathered years ago
Thinking those grains of sand were whole”
― Sanhita Baruah

“I bless these gifts from the sea,
From sand to shell let it be.”
― Wendy Joubert, Sea Witch

“As a matter of habit, I stop and pick up seashells that interest me, and I always put the ones I really like in a lovely Baccarat bowl in my living room. It's my way of remembering that I once was young and carefree.”
― Adriana Trigiani, Rococo

“They were brightly colored, their gold rims vivid. From a distance, they looked like flowers, pinks and creams, reds and golds, unfolding in the sun.”
― Jennifer Weiner, That Summer

“We have come this far walking on the seashells of our dreams.”
― Avijeet Das

“Patience. That's what this glass and silver and shell had taught her over the years. Patience was what wore old broken bottles into bits of color and light. Patience what created those shells, wore them away again, tossed them onto the shore.... And patience had rewarded her here too.”
― Roseanna M. White, Yesterday's Tides

“This [sand-dollar hunting] had become one of our rituals together, and though she would search for other varieties of shells when I was out of town or unable to see her, she would wait until I appeared on her front porch before setting off to extract these mute delicate coins from their settings in the sand. At first, we had collected only the larger specimens, but gradually as we learned what was rare and to be truly prized, we began to gather only the smallest sand dollars for our collection. Our trophies were sometimes as small as thumbnails and as fragile as contact lenses. Annie Kate collected the tiniest relics, round and cruciform and white as bone china when dried of sea water, and placed them in a glass-and-copper cricket box in her bedroom. Often we would sit together and admire the modest splendor of our accumulation. At times it looked like the coinage of a shy, diminutive species of angel. Our quest to find the smallest sand dollar became a competition between us, and as the months passed and Annie Kate grew larger with the child, the brittle, desiccated animals we unearthed from the sand became smaller and smaller. It was all a matter of training the eye to expect less.”
― Pat Conroy, The Lords of Discipline

“Over the city, under the Hollywood sign
City lights are flickering, like a million fireflies
He turns up the radio and says to me
Remember this old melody?
Hot Cali sunshine, radiating late June
Driving up the coastline, top down, me and you
Seashells, sand angels, taking in the sunset
Baby I’m dreaming of when we first met”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“With her left hand, Herself clumsily tucked the shells into her nightgown and straightened them, each cuntshell wrapped in its cradle of braided lavender or gray or black cotton thread now touching her skin. Herself had told Donkey that each shell was a woman's life saved at great cost, and she needed to keep the shells warm and safe while she lived, giving these souls their time in the world. Baba Rose had had over a hundred shells on her necklace when she'd finally been unable to get out of bed under the burden. Every time Herself told the story of how Baba Rose died, there was another cause, and Donkey had to assume that the ghost whose fire had warmed their cottage for so many years had died of all of it, of everything.”
― Bonnie Jo Campbell, The Waters

“She wore Hermine's necklace under her shirt every night while she slept, and it soothed her to listen to the whispers of those souls not born, souls who Herself had said were preparing to travel on in their own time. She'd expected to feel wished down by the burden of keeping the necklace safe, but most of what she heard from the string of clinking bodies was laughter, and what she felt was a tickling energy and a sweet pure light rising from someplace without fear or desire, a place of healing kindness without this life's uncertainties. Some of the energy and light she sensed might have come from the relieved and renewed souls of the women who had been free from burdens they could not endure; this energy of having a second chance permeated Donkey's body when she wore the necklace.”
― Bonnie Jo Campbell, The Waters

“He circles the shrines, scanning each of them.
There's one made in exclusively soft shades of pink, with a bouquet of blush roses at the center. It's surrounded by oysters, each one nestling a pearl. Smooth, heart-shaped rose quartz surrounds the perimeter in a perfect circle. Sliced guava reveals its rosy flesh, next to clamshells full of cherry blossoms.
Another is built from a large shell in the center, filled with water that reflects the moon. White magnolias float on the surface, along with golden glitter that sparkles like starlight. Oranges with long stems and blossoms surround the shell, paired with sliced mango drizzled with honey.
I swear I know who some of these belong to. The one with green grapes and pears decorated with golden butterfly appliqué must be Genevieve's. Beside it is one crafted from fuchsia carnations and obnoxiously large peonies, with different berries in porcelain dishes painted with bright pink flowers. So obviously Amelia's.”
― Kiana Krystle, Dance of the Starlit Sea