When you start to live outside yourself, it’s all dangerous.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d been needing to meet someone I might be able to say everything to.
Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.
She didn’t like to be talked about. Equally, she didn’t like not to be talked about, when the high-minded chatter rushed on as though she was not there. There was no pleasing her, in fact. She had the grace, even at eleven, to know there was no pleasing her. She thought a lot, analytically, about other people’s feelings, and had only just begun to realize that this was not usual, and not reciprocated.
It’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.
Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.
Vanity was stronger than love at sixteen and there was no room in her hot heart now for anything but hate.
I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.