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I wonder…,” she said, “if there was such a thing as time machines, would anyone ever use them to go to the future?

Rainbow Rowell

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Rainbow Rowell
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 24
Author
Journalist
Novelist
Prosaist
Writer
NE
Time
Machines
Wonder
Anyone
Future
Use
Ever
Thing
Would

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Nothing before you counts, he said. And I can't even imagine an after. She shook her head. Don't. What? Don't talk about after. I just meant that... I want to be the last person who ever kisses you, too.... That sounds bad, like a death threat or something. What I'm trying to say is, you're it. This is it for me.
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As I moved to less and less diverse places in my life, I realized that white people dont talk about race amongst themselves!
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Maybe he was Filipino. Was that in Asia? Probably. Asia's out-of-control huge.
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I'd rather be broken than wasted.
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He tried to remember how this happened – how she went from someone he’d never met to the only one who mattered.
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You flirt with old people and babies and everybody in between.
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The professor leaned forward. “But there’s nothing more profound than creating something out of nothing.” Her lovely face turned fierce. “Think about it Cath. That’s what makes a god—or a mother. There’s nothing more intoxicating than creating something from nothing. Creating something from yourself.
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It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simon's and Baz's. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world.
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She was tired of being the one who cried.
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I don't want to do anything. I don't even want to start this day because then I'll just be expected to finish it.
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I think as an author you have to allow a movie to be separate from the book. It's an entirely different animal. I almost never mind when a movie changes or cuts something - as long as it helps the film work better.
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You think I'm cute? He said thinkly, pulling on her hand. She was glad he couldn't see her face. I think you're... Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like the person in a Greek myth who makes one of the gods stop caring about being a god.
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The next night, Lincoln parked his Corolla right next to The Courier's front door. I'm here, he thought. Find me. Follow me. Make this inevitable.
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You flirt with everything. She could tell that her eyes were popping-- her eyeballs actually felt cold around the edges. You flirt with old people and babies and everybody in between.
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You’re a sad little hermit, and it creeps me out.
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She didn't want to run, period. It made her breasts feel like they were going to detach from her body.
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Holding Eleanor's hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.
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What about him? she’d say, finding an attractive guy to point out while they were standing in the lunch line. Do you want to kiss him? I don’t want to kiss a stranger, Cath would answer. I’m not interested in lips out of context.
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The first time he'd held her hand, it felt so good that it crowded out all the bad things. It felt better than anything had ever hurt.
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You’ve read the books?” “I’ve seen the movies.” Cath rolled her eyes so hard, it hurt. (Actually.) (Maybe because she was still on the edge of tears. On the edge, period.) “So you haven’t read the books.” “I’m not really a book person.” “That might be the most idiotic thing you’ve ever said to me
Rainbow Rowell