We’re each other’s questions, aren’t we? The question that never gets an answer.
His absence is so big it’s like he’s there.
People see stories everywhere,” Regine says. “That’s what my father used to say. We take random events and we put them together in a pattern so we can comfort ourselves with a story, no matter how much it obviously isn’t true.” She glances back at Seth. “We have to lie to ourselves to live. Otherwise, we’d go crazy.
If you’re too specific, people will purposely mishear you so they can be outraged about whatever thing that usually outrages them.
All stories begin before they start and never, ever finish.
Death is not the end.
Everything’s always ending. But everything’s always beginning, too.
What’s the point of lying about anything? We could keep being too afraid to say we don’t know stuff and then the future will come and eat us anyway and we’ll regret not doing all that stuff we wished we did.
I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live long enough so I can really live.
Funny how you can forget that every family isn’t like yours.
I love that you’re worried,′ she says, ’but you’re worried about all the wrong things.
For who needs devils when you have men?
Will the world end in darkness because it is foretold? Or because there will be those who believe it so strongly they will make it so?
Blame is a human concept, one of its blackest and most selfish and self-binding.
Ah, well, then you’ve never stood on a beach as the waves came crashing in, the water stretching out from you until it’s beyond sight, moving and blue and alive and so much bigger than even the black beyond seems because the ocean hides what it contains.” She shakes her head in a happy way. “If you ever want to see how small you are in the plan of God, just stand at the edge of an ocean.
But the thing about good ideas is that they grow other ideas.
A bully with charisma and top marks is still a bully. He’ll probably end up Prime Minister one day. God help us all.
Yeah, my parents are crappy, but you hurt either of my sisters and I will spend my life finding ways to destroy you.
Why did everyone no longer a teenager automatically dismiss any feeling you had then? Who cared if he’d grow out of it? That didn’t make it any less true in those painful and euphoric days when it was happening.
I hate myself so much I want to stick a knife in my heart.