Quote

One expects decent people to stand up for the good of all. Decent people shut their doors and hide behind them as decent people do. Massacres could never happen if it weren't for decent people.

Jennifer Donnelly

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Jennifer Donnelly
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: August 29
Author
Novelist
Writer
Port Chester
New York
Happens
Hide
Good
Weren
Never
Decent
People
Doors
Behinds
Behind
Massacres
Stand
Expects
Happen
Shut

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Only the hopeless love God.
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I just love historical fiction.
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Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be.
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The world goes on, as stupid and brutal as tomorrow as it was today. And though I am shuddering with pain, and twisting with pain, and sobbing with pain, i laugh.Because I know now. I know the answer. I know the truth. Oh,dead man, you are dead wrong, I tell him.Can't you see? The world goes on, stupid and brutal, but I [do not. I do not.]
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I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
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I need a boy who thinks with his big head, not his little one. Since they do not exist, I have fashioned my own.
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The greenest of pastures are right here on earth.
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Why is it that weeks and months and years go by so quickly, all in a blur, but moments last forever?
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Men are the weak ones, luv. Didn't you know? Oh, you make a lot of noise, but its the women who are strong. Where it counts. In 'ere.
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Funny, 'ow you can 'old a jewel in your 'and, and toss it away, and not even know what you 'ad until it's gone.
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There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.
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She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.
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History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.
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I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.
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Becuse God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.
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He pressed himself into me and kissed my neck, and it was as if everything strong and solid inside me, heart and bones and muscle and gut, softened and melted from the heat of him.
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The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please
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Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?
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The world goes on, stupid and brutal, but I do not. Can't you see? I do not.
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Because beautiful things never last. Not roses nor snow… And not fireworks, either
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