The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That’s what I love about being a writer of novels.
Believe it or not – it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.
I’ve been a writer since I was 16. I didn’t get published until I was 24. I know that sounds crazy.
A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.
Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you’ve finished just to stay near it.
I see Death as the part of us that knows all the time that we’re going to die, reminding us to live properly.
I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
It’s not a big thing, but I guess it’s true – big things are often just small things that are noticed.
One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.
They’d been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
Not a beauty queen. Not one of those. You know the ones. She was real.
He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
The days and nights come apart. I feel them corroding at the seams.
But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?