Here’s the thing about love,” Mrs. Basil E. replied. “You get a last chance. And then, when that doesn’t work, you make yourself another last chance. Then another. Then another. You keep going until your last chances run out.
People who want things to be perfect are always impossible to please. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. Even if their expectations aren’t correct, their instincts.
I think that reality has the distinct potential to completely suck, and the way to get around that is to step out of reality from time to time and find something a little more enjoyable with someone you completely, unadulteratedly.
You were thinking about the things you love, weren’t you?” “Yes.” “Good. The fact that it took so long for you to realize I was gone means you have a pretty solid foundation on which to build character.” “But I also have stress and doubt and fear.” “Most human beings do.” “But it overwhelms me at times.” “Just as it overwhelms most human beings. Life, dear Salinger, isn’t in the vanquishing, it’s in the navigation.
A party, like the human body, will fall into rigor mortis without proper circulation.
Your lightness,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. “It’s disarming.
I miss him a lot. And we text and talk all the time, so he never feels that far. But I’m also happy to have some distance, to feel that I’m becoming myself without having to worry if the relationship is exerting too much influence. It’s good to have each other, but you also need to have your own people, your own experiences.
I could always find peace in books.” “And escape?” “Escape, sure. But it wasn’t so much about getting away, as going to. You can go anywhere in a book. Books are adventure. Knowledge. Possibility. Magic.
Wearing a hijab is exactly what makes me a feminist. It’s freedom of choice. My choice. It’s a modesty that expresses humility and respect. It’s a reminder of my community. It’s a reminder to believe in myself and what I stand for. What’s more feminist than that?
You have to understand they’re operating from a place of fear, like Fox News viewers.
From the time I was a baby, my mom took me to the library at least once a week. Librarians were like Mary Poppins to me. They always knew how to match a book to my mood or to whatever I was going through at the time. I could always find peace in books.
What I mean is that when people say right person, wrong time, or wrong person, right time, it’s usually a cop-out. They think that fate is playing with them. That we’re all just participants in this romantic reality show that God gets a kick out of watching. But the universe doesn’t decide what’s right or not right. You do.
She went to take the notebook, but Boris beat her to it. “Bad girl!” she chided. “I’m pretty sure Boris is a boy,” I said. “Oh, I know,” Mrs. Basil E. assured me. “I just like to keep him confused.
The exhaustion of living was just too much for me.
I know how to handle animals taking unauthorized expeditions.
In all honesty, I should admit I have researched much of the scientific evidence refuting G-d’s existence, as a result of which I suspect I am a true believer in him the way I am in Santa. But I will unhesitatingly, and joyfully, O-Holy-Night his name between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, with the mutual understanding that as of Christmas Day, once the presents are opened, my relationship with him goes on hiatus until I camp out for best viewing of the Macy’s parade the following year.
I hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me.
What do I want for Christmas?” He looked thoughtful for a second, then said, “World peace?” “Not helpful!
I hope that global warming will go away. I hope that people won’t be homeless. I hope that suffering will not exist. I want to believe that my hope is not in vain.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat animals.
Two Boots makes weird Cajun-flavored pizzas. Not for me and my sensitive digestive system.