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time is cruel to all, and crueler still to artists. Because vision weakens, and voices wither, and talent fades.”
“Because happiness is brief, and history is lasting, and in the end,” he says, “everyone wants to be remembered.”
Greatness requires sacrifice. Who you sacrifice to matters less than what you sacrifice for.
You don’t really realize the power of a name until it’s gone.
What is the point in planting seeds? Why tend them? Why help them grow? Everything crumbles in the end. Everything dies.
“I love you,” he says, and Addie wonders if this is love, this gentle thing. If it is meant to be this soft, this kind. The difference between heat, and warmth. Passion, and contentment.
There’s no way to un-know the fact that someone is dying. It eats away all the normal, and leaves something wrong and rotten in its place.
They teach you growing up that you are only one thing at a time—angry, lonely, content—but he’s never found that to be true. He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid.
No one is ever ready to die. Even when they think they want to.
“It will hurt. And it will pass. All things do.”
“Why?” he pleads. “Why would you do it?” “Think of it as a thank-you,” she says, “for seeing me. For showing me what it’s like to be seen. To be loved. Now you get a second chance. But you have to let them see you as you are. You have to find people who see you.”
