Even when times are dark, the darkest, even when you are sure that life as you know it is over, there are still things that last.
I guess I was inching and crawling my way toward Elizabeth Bennett’s words about unconditional love. That it was a dangerous thing without heavy doses of mutual respect.
Fury and devastation are fraternal twins.
No one is ever quite as strong or as weak as you’d think.
You can want one thing and have a secret wish for its opposite.
When you’re not sure whether you’re in love with someone or not, the answer is not.
Just because it turned out bad, doesn’t mean it wasn’t meant.
You have ordinary moments and ordinary moments and more ordinary moments, and then, suddenly, there is something monumental right there. You have past and future colliding in the present, your own personal Big Bang, and nothing will ever be the same.
Sometimes you’re sure dogs have some secret, superior intelligence, and other times you know they’re only their simple, goofy selves.
I finally learned that it was all right to say something wasn’t working for me when it wasn’t working. The world doesn’t come crashing down when you speak the truth.
Bliss is the ocean, a towel on the sand, the sun out, the chance to swim in waves or walk dragging a stick behind you, a good book, a cold drink.
Sometimes good choices are really bad ones, wrapped up in so much fear you can’t even see straight.
You can hold a secret, hold it so far in that it drives nearly every thought and every move you make- your very heartbeat, almost.
Because that’s how it works after something terrible has happened. You know this is true if something terrible has ever happened to you. A thousand objects take on new meaning. Everything is a reminder of something else.
Supposedly there’s an actual, researched link between extreme creativity and mental illness, and I believe it because I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
Blessed books – they’re a place to be alone, and no one else can come in.
We had lain together, skin on skin, been as close as two people could, and he was a stranger. He was that someone who you are afraid of as a child, stranger. They never told you that stranger might be someone you knew.
I began to learn the importance of lifting things up and looking underneath.
You could care enough to keep a secret, but you could care enough to tell one, too.
Maybe it was wrong, or maybe impossible, but I wanted the truth to be one thing. One solid thing.