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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 don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.
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I understood what triggered her earthquakes, most of them.
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I needed to hear the world but didn't want the world to know I was listening.
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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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Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.
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Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt. It made it easier not to think about having my body and my family and my life stolen, made it easier not to care... -Wintergirls
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I would never be popular. I didn't want to be I liked being shy. I'd never be the smartest or the hottest or the happiest. By eighth grade you start to figure out your limits.
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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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Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.
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I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
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When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
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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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For one moment we are not failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds.
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There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
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He says a million things without saying a word. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.
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I failed eating, failed drinking, failed not cutting myself into shreds. Failed friendship. Failed sisterhood and daughterhood. Failed mirrors and scales and phone calls. Good thing I'm stable.
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It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.
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I knit the afternoon away. I knit reasons for Elijah to come back. I knit apologies for Emma. I knit angry knots and slipped stitches for every mistake I ever made, and I knit wet, swollen stitches that look awful. I knit the sun down.
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Don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself.
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We held hands when we walked down the gingerbread path into the forest, blood dripping from our fingers. We danced with witches and kissed monsters. We turned us into wintergirls, when she tried to leave, I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone.
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