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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

Jandy Nelson

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

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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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I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.
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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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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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Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
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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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But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?
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This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?
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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 he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky
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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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... if you're someone who knows the worst thing can happen at any time, aren't you also someone who knows the best thing can happen at any time too?
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The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
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We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.
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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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I can't shove the dark out of my way.
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