I do my best thinking at night when everyone else is sleeping. No interruptions. No noise. I like the feeling of being awake when no one else is.
What if life could be this way? Only the happy parts, none of the terrible, not even the mildly unpleasant. What if we could just cut out the bad and keep the good? This is what I want to do with Violet - give her only the good, keep away the bad, so that good is all we ever have around us.
You shouldn't spend all your time worrying about the love that leaves, because then you might overlook the love that was always there.
The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. Everyone's so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there's such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view like this, we'd all be happier.
But what if hope had a threshold? What if there was a limit to it? What if each of us was only given a certain amount and mine was used up?
Were you planning to jump off?“Not on pizza day. Never on pizza day, which is one of the better days of the week.” I should mention that I am a brilliant deflector.
The world after a war is a good world, I told myself. A happy world. A secure world. In this world, I might do anything.
I’ve always thought you should be able to freeze time. This way you could hit the Pause button at a really good point in your life so that nothing changes
For a minute, I can feel it: the sense of peace as my mind goes quiet, like I'm already dead. I am weightless and free. Nothing and no one to fear, not even myself.
Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at myself for being so easy to leave and for not being enough to make him want to stick around.
Who cares for Algebra?Who delights in solving math?I only want to live my lifeAlong the creative path.
Now, if you asked him what he was going to do with himself, he'd tell you he guessed he might do anything he set his mind to. But he'd say it in a far-off way, as if he didn't really mean it or care much at all.
Since I stopped writing, I read more than ever. Other people's words, not my own--my words are gone.
It's my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life I wish for measles or smallpox or some other easily understood disease just to make it easier on me and also on them.
I’m sorry about Finch. He was a good, screwed up kid who should have had more help.” “I feel responsible.
I think about Finch and Sir Patrick Moore and black holes and blue holes and bottomless bodies of water and exploding stars and event horizons, and a place so dark that light can't get out once it's in.
In those moments, none of it matters. It’s like that stuff is happening to someone else because all you feel is dark inside, and that darkness just kind of takes over. You don’t even really think about what might happen to the people you leave behind, because all you can think about is yourself.
Water is peaceful. I am at rest. In thewater, I am safe and pulled in where Ican’t get out. Everything slows down—the noise and the racing of my thoughts.
There aren't many people who would say this about me, but the great thing about this life of ours is that you can be someone different to everybody.
I don't want to tiptoe around her or him or you anymore. The only thing that's doing us making it harder for me to remember her. Sometimes i try to concentrate on her voice just so i can hear her again-The way she always said 'Hey there' when she was in a good mood,An 'Vi-o-let' when she was annoyed.For some reason, these are the easiest ones.I concentrate on them, and when i have them. I hold on to them because i don't ever want to forget how she sounded.Like it or not,She was here and now she's gone.But she doesn't have to be completely gone.
I thought of the pieces of me I'd left behind, a piece here, a piece there, scattered like bread crumbs. How much of me was left?
You know, that's what you've been doing in a way--coming out. Coming out of your room. Coming out of your house. Coming out of your shell.
Too many people in this world think small is the best they can do. Not you, Libby Strout. You weren't born for small! You don't know how to do small! Small is not in you!
May your eye go to the Sun, To the wind your soul... You are all the colors in one, at full brightness.
As long as you live, there's always something waiting; and even if it's bad, what can you do? You can't stop living.
I should be happy, but instead I feel nothing. I feel a lot of nothing these days. I've cried a few times, but mostly I'm empty, as if whatever makes me feel and hurt and laugh and love has been surgically removed, leaving me hollowed out like a shell.
A string of thoughts run through my head like a song I can't get rid of, over and over in the same order: I am broken. I am a fraud. I am impossible to love.