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There's a strange sort of quiet when you're dying. It's as if you're in a glass room, and the walls keep getting thicker and thicker.
Gabrielle Zevin
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Gabrielle Zevin
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: October 24
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
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New York City
New York
Keep
Quiet
Dying
Wall
Room
Rooms
Thicker
Strange
Walls
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Glass
Getting
Glasses
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A life isn't measured in hours and minutes. It's the quality, not the length.
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What were you like, I asked her. we're you happy? Or were you smiling because they told you to?
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Maybe if I'd been braver in that moment, I would have cried.
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No one actually needs another person or another person's love to survive. Love is when we have irrationally convinced ourselves that we do.
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if you were older you might agree with me. you might say that real love steals nothing. you might say that real love leaves a person intact. you would be wrong, jane. love is a greedy toddler who knows only the word 'mine.
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I let myself feel good and sorry for myself, but only for a second. Daddy always said that the most useless of all human emotions was self-pity.
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My brain said no. But my heart!
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If you are going to forgive a person, Liz decides, it is best to do it sooner rather than later. Later, Liz knows from experience, could be sooner than you thought.
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Ask two people to tell you anything, you’ll get two versions. Even easy things like directions, let alone important or semi-controversial topics like why a fight started or what a person was generally like. If you don’t know something for yourself, you just can’t be sure.
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Chocolate doesn't solve everything, Nana. It solves a whole heck of a lot, though.
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I can promise you books and conversation and all my heart.
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...lies can sound awfully pretty when a girl is in love with the person telling them.
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Oh, says Owen, but I would have, you know. I know you would have, says Liz, and knowing you would have is nearly as good.
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But then again maybe I will is nicer. It has a future in it.
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Should have. Would have. Could have. Didn't.
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You forget all of it anyway. . . You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. . . You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They’re the last to go. And then once you’ve forgotten enough, you love someone else.
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We aren't the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.
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Wounds are like water set to boil - they heal best left unwatched.
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He kissed me, though not in a sexy way. Gentle. Tender.
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