I want my life to be mystifying,” she declared, although she didn’t know what she meant.
There’s fire in my fingers. I burn everything I touch.
Life is lived on the inside. What’s outside doesn’t matter.
I suppose that’s what happens when you make other people’s lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.
I would always be lonely, but no more alone.
How does one craft happiness out of something as important, as complicated, as unrepeatable and as easily damaged as life?
Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that’s sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair.
Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.
Nothing was easy, and sometimes she failed, and sometimes she thought that the fairy stories were right, that there must indeed be easier ways of living happily ever after; but defeat is a poor ending to any tale, so she kept trying.
A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.
Let me fly, let me see things that are hidden from other eyes.
I am dying: it’s a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.
There is nothing that is more beautiful than everything else in the world.
He’s used to the freedom of neglect; he likes it.
I sensed that he was dead, but wasn’t sure if death was forever. It seemed best to stay nearby, in case the chance came to make everything changed.
He is dirt under fingernails and the stick of sap on skin... I am saintly, poetic; I am demise, otherworld.
In the quest for power, truth is always the first thing left behind.
I love you,” she told him, and he knew that this was true, and she knew that he believed her; but when she said it she saw the chain around his ankle, a length of links that let him wander, but not far. She did not see the chain around her own ankle, because love is blind.
God loves old dogs.
But what she feels is sometimes hard to express... Much of what is best in her is warped on the voyage from within to without.
I fail to see how turning the subject over like compost can do anything except raise its stink.