And the minute you realize that we are all pretenders is the minute everything stops intimidating you: punishment, and failure, and death. Even people. There is nothing so ingenious about another human who has pretended well. They are, in fact, just another soul, perhaps more clever, better at failing than you are. But not worth a second of intimidation.
What you wrap around your soul determines your outcome.
What’s a Muggle?” he asks, taking it from me. “I save that mug for special people, Kit. Don’t ask questions.
Maybe people who have had too much of it. Or people who have had too little. Or people who are too shallow to appreciate its hard edges.
Be careful, David, I wanted to say. He was trying to see into me and that was never a good idea.
Today we are here, and tomorrow we are gone, amounted to a handful of memories. It’s freaking depressing.
Well, there’s your problem then,” I said, sighing. “When you try to prove your art you’re going to fail every time.
That’s what makes you a narcissist. Even in the middle of hurting other people you’re focused on yourself.
Embrace the lows so that you can more effectively enjoy the highs. Love the fight. Love it so much, and let it save you when your emotional muscles have become soft.
She threw barbs, they were well aimed and they made me laugh. If I were a different man I’d have a bruised ego. I took her jabs and molded them to me. She was something I knew existed but had never met: the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow. Terrible analogies, I know. Yara.
It was awful to be this person, so jammed up with bad experiences you couldn’t let anyone see your real face.
That’s why you never smile. You’d be a better man if you drank coffee.
Be bold about your right to be loved. And most importantly, don’t be ashamed of where you’ve come from, or the mistakes you’ve made. In blindness, love will exhume you.
I am crouched in the trashy novel section, looking for cheap thrills and deep skills.
I think of the way he kissed me, pulled back, smiled a little, and then kissed me some more. I think of the way he was always feeling me up, no matter where we were. I think of the way he always knew what I was thinking and called me out on it.
He was too much and I was too little.
Pain makes humans selfish.
I don’t know much about artists, but I’m beginning to feel as if they possess sorcery.
She decided something about herself and then she sabotaged her own happiness with it. She needed the type of love that stayed no matter what. She needed to see that nothing could devalue her in my eyes.
How often do we lie to ourselves and say we don’t care about something when we do?