Quote

Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it. . . . Someone just ripped off my eyelids.

Laurie Halse Anderson

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Laurie Halse Anderson
Age: 63
Born: 1961
Born: October 23
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Laurie Beth Halse
Words
Knife
Girl
Knives
Clutching
Someone
Trained
Piled
Stands
Stove
Corners
Stoves
Angry
Eyelids
Air
Grease
Blood
Ripped

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I knew it! He pumps a fist into the air. You've fallen in love with me. You want to have my babies. We'll get a team of horses and a covered wagon and we'll journey to South America and raise goats.
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CONJUGATE THIS: I cut class, you cut class, he, she, it cuts class. We cut class, they cut class. We all cut class. I cannot say this in Spanish because I did not go to Spanish today. Gracias a dios. Hasta luego.
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We swore sacred oaths to be strong and to save the planet and to be friends forever.
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If I run or breathe too deep, the cheap stitches holding me together will snap, and all the stickiness inside will pour out and burn through the concrete.
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Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.
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I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.
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You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl.
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When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
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None of [the books are] worth reading. There are no fairy tales, no faerie tails, no sword-swinging princesses or lightning-throwing gods.
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Having a friend made everything else suck less.
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The one good thing about being kind of shy is that nobody bugs you when you want to be left alone.
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This girl shivers and crawls under the covers with all her clothes on and falls into an overdue library book, a faerie story with rats and marrow and burning curses. The sentences build a fence around her, a Times Roman 10-point barricade, to keep the thorny voices in her head from getting too close.
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Be careful what you wish for. There's always a catch.
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The best time to talk to ghosts is just before the sun comes up.
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Dead girl walking” the boys say in the halls. “Tell us your secrets” the girls whisper, one toilet to another. I am that girl. I am the spaces between my thighs, daylight shinning through. I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame.
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Death is funny, when you think about it. Everybody does it, but nobody knows how, exactly how.
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I am not going to think about it. It was ugly, but it’s over, and I’m not going to think about it.
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There is nothing wrong with me. These are really sick people, sick that you can see.
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My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.
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