Quote

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

Jandy Nelson

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Jandy Nelson
Age: 58
Born: 1965
Born: November 25
Writer
New York City
New York
Air
Bells
Doors
Sleeping
Buries
Deep
Rings
Gust
Sleep
Disappear
Knocks
Everyone
Blow
Disappears
House
Grief
Slightest
Someone
Ground
Bell
Time
Door
Blows

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Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you've been in before - you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall,the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to.
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And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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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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But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?
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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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The Color Of Extraordinary.
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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.
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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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Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.
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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
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And then he smiles, and in all the places around the globe where it's night, day breaks.
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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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Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don't know a damn thing.
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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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She's a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps.
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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 guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
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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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