The People in the Trees

by Hanya Yanagihara

it is one of those forgettable yet not insignificant rituals, one that reassures you that life is progressing as expected.

this was before I realized that parents disappoint us in many ways and it is best not to expect anything of them at all, for chances are that they won’t be able to deliver it.

Even her last day of life followed that same inscrutable rhythm that only she could decipher.

He had the sort of face that was memorable for its absences rather than its presences:

It was the first time I had been spoken to as an adult.

language has no inherent secrets.

Language could be misinterpreted, misconstrued, its rules imposed or ignored at whim. There was no discipline to it.

“She had a good death. She was lucky.”

to fear death, you must first have something to tether you to life.

I didn’t doubt their seriousness or their sincerity, but neither did I allow myself to worry about my own future;

I was even then so eager for a certain sort of greatness, the sort that seemed both possible and yet so distant, a blurry-edged dream on the periphery of my vision, that at the time it seemed easier to pretend to all and to myself that I did not care for a spectacular future at all,