At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave. ― Jack Kerouac, Maggie Cassidy. (Avon 1959)
Just when normal life felt almost possible—when the world held some kind of order, meaning, even loveliness (the prismatic spray of light through an icicle; the stillness of a sunrise), some small thing would go awry and the veil of optimism was torn away, the barren world revealed. They learned, somehow, to wait those times… Continue reading David Wroblewski
I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories;… Continue reading Hermann Hesse
She was still waiting for him to come back to her, even though he wasn’t going to. She was still holding out for something that wasn’t going to happen. She was good at waiting. That seemed like a sad thing to be good at. — Ann Brashares, Girls In Pants: The Third Summer Of The… Continue reading Ann Brashares
I kissed him passionately, I even wanted to bruise him, so that he would not be able to forget me. — Françoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse. (Pocket (FR) January 2004) Originally published 1954.
It was nice – in the dark and the quiet… and her eyes looking back, like there was something in me worth seeing. — John Green, Paper Towns. (Speak September 22, 2009)
Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love. — Wally Lamb, She’s Come Undone. (Pocket Books June 1, 1998)
Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. — John Green, The Fault in Our Stars. (Dutton Books January 10, 2012)
That’s what I believe. I believe the universe wants to be noticed. I think the universe is improbably biased toward consciousness, that it rewards intelligence in part because the universe enjoys its elegance being observed. And who am I, living in the middle of history, to tell the universe that it – or my observation… Continue reading John Green
And I realize how useless wails are and how gratuitous melancholy is. — Mircea Eliade, Le Roman de l’adolescent myope. (Actes Sud (August 10, 1993) Originally published 1928.