If you don’t write the book you have to write, everything breaks.
Books tell you more about their owners than the owners do.
Sometimes you can do things for others that you can't do for yourself.
I liked the fact she understood how we all have little secret habits that seem normal enough to us, but which we know better than to mention out loud.
I'm nothing you can catch now. I am black powder, I am singe, I am the bomb that bursts the night.
I'm feeling how profoundly my family disappointed me and in the end how I retreated, how I became nothing, because that was much less risky than attempting to be something, to be anything in the face of such contempt.
People should pay more attention. Everyone wants attention, but no one wants to give attention.
I don't know anything anymore. Is that normal? Is it normal to notice the enormity of everything and just go blank?
I’m trying to find some piece of myself that is truly me, a part that I would be willing to wear like a jewel around my neck.
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