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I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.

Jandy Nelson

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Jandy Nelson
Age: 58
Born: 1965
Born: November 25
Writer
New York City
New York
Heard
Dies
Someone
Burns
Right
Burn
Time
Library
Ground
Watching
Expression

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I can't shove the dark out of my way.
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Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.
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grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping
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Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?
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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
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People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.
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You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.
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We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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Years ago, I was crashed in gram’s garden and Big asked me what I was doing. I told him I was looking up at the sky. He said, “That’s a misconception, Lennie, the sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
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... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.
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That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.
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It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.
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Grief is forever. It doesn't go away it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.
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I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.
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When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky
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The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
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This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.
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