Nothing happens without intention, Willem. Nothing. This theory of yours – life is rules by accidents – isn’t that just one huge excuse for passivity?
Unfortunately, sometimes the things we love can also kill us.
Why had she asked a mirror – or anyone for that matter – to tell her who she was?
You know, the portrait gallery is full of paintings of men who’ve killed those who have wronged them,” Elsinora said. “But they’re not called villains. They’re called heroes.
Knowing that something bad is going to happen, whether you want it to or not, to the point that you just want it to happen so you can stop dreading it.
Toate relatiile sunt dure. La fel ca in muzica, uneori exista armonie, iar alteori – o cacofonie sinistra. Nu-i cazul sa-ti spun asta tocmai tie.
I mean, does anybody read anymore?
Dar as intelege daca alegi dragostea, dragostea pentru Adam in detrimentul dragostei pentru muzica. Orice ai alege, castigi. Si, orice ai alege, pierzi. Ce pot sa-ti spun? Dragostea e dificila.
Ira may be the Giving Tree, but the boy with the ax who chops him down, branch by branch – that’s me.
You’ve got me believing in a great good place.
Maybe we are all inevitable.
They evolved into birds.
Are all movies books first?” “Just the best ones.
Kim doesn’t ask any more questions after that. They sit there in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and it reminds me of how Adam and I can be together but quiet and separate and I realize that they’re friends now, friends for real. No matter what happens, at least I have achieved that.
Like us,” I repeat. “Are the answers to all life’s questions in books?
Shouldn’t I stay? Soldier through it? Maybe if I’d had some practice, maybe if I’d had more devastation in my life, I would be more prepared to go on. It’s not that my life has been perfect. I’ve had disappointments and I’ve been lonely and frustrated and angry and all the crappy stuff everyone feels. But in terms of heartbreak, I’ve been spared. I’ve never toughened up enough to handle what I’d have to handle if I were to stay.
I look at her there in the shadows of the shut-down city, her hair falling onto her face, and I can see her trying to figure out if I’ve lost it.
There was a kind of tough that could swim in the cold Pacific, and then there was the kind of tough Frankie was.
They can’t explain it. But that doesn’t make it any less real.
I cannot scream until my throat hurts or break a window with my fist until my hand bleeds, or pull my hair out in clumps until the pain in my scalp overcomes the one in my heart.
It makes me happy to imagine them drinking tea or going to the movies together, still connected to each other by the invisible chain of a family that no longer exists.