No one knows how to write a novel until it’s been written.
No matter what, the past would follow around. A sorry soul that only grew heavier in each town. She couldn’t run away.
Life was like a book, Jet thought, but one you would never finish. You would never know how people would wind up; the good often suffered and the wicked prospered and there was no explanation for the way in which fate was meted out as there was in novels.
They both always wished for the same thing when they were sitting on the roof of the aunts’ house on those hot, lonely nights. Sometime in the future, when they were both all grown up, they wanted to look up at the stars and not be afraid. This is the night they had wished for. This is that future, right now. And they can stay out as long as they want to, they can remain on the lawn until every star has faded, and still be there to watch the perfect blue sky at noon.
Language was everything. Trust was for fools. Love came and went. Words could be stolen.
He felt like an addict, out of control, unable to stop himself from taking what he imagined he was entitled to, not yet understanding that no one is entitled to anything other than his freedom and the choices he makes.
Where there were lilacs there would be luck.
Love could ruin your life or set you free; it could happen by chance or be a well-planned decision.
A book doesn’t live when it’s written. It lives when it’s read.
What do you have there?” he asked, always interested to discover what a person was reading, for he believed it was possible to see inside a person’s soul once you knew which books mattered to them.
In every fairy tale the girl who is saved is the one who rescues herself.
Some people are who you think they are. Some people hide the wolf inside of them, but you can hear them howl.
IT WASN’T EASY TO walk away from the past, even when you locked it up in a box for which there was no key. Memories rattle around late at night, they claw at the latch, escaping when you least expect them to do so.
They thought I only had a life that I lived here, but I had found other possibilities every time I read a book.
Nobody ever thinks it will happen,” Sarah replied. “Real life is unbelievable. Souls are snatched away from us, flesh and blood turn to dust, people you love betray you, men go to war over nothing. It’s all preposterous. That’s why we have novels. To make sense of things.
Lately, she’s been wondering if perhaps when the living become the dead they leave an empty space behind, a hollow that no one else can fill. She was lucky once, for a very brief time. Maybe she should just be grateful for that.
In books, no one helped a girl who didn’t help herself and every fairy tale ended with the same lessons. Trick your enemy, do what you must, believe in enchantments, save yourself.
Sometimes walking away is the bravest thing you can do. When you get there, you’ll know where you are.
To my mother. Now I know the love between us was never invisible, even when I didn’t see it. I see it now.
A fish and a sparrow cannot live in the same world. one will gasp for air and the other will drown.
In his opinion, a woman who loved books was the best sort.