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she often felt like a dust particle.
he’d have to pretend to be a person who said person things—he’d
I’m pretty sure my spirit or soul or whatever is a pile of words.
“In the end, we’ll all become stories.”
trying to crash into infinity with words.
“All women write stories. It’s just that only some transcribe them.”
having a best friend was like having a secret suitcase full of sky, of rivers, of endless summer afternoons.
He was such a rough draft, had no idea what parts of himself would make it, what crap parts would be cut.
The future hadn’t existed. The clock had had no hands,
He was the object of a preposition, never the subject of the sentence that was his life.
Stories give our lives structure, and that structure is destiny.
with only a pen and terror as companions.
It’s like grief is an exclusive club and members recognize each other as easily as if they were wearing name tags.
He had an urge to give him something, like the Golden Gate Bridge or Mount Everest.
Like the white spaces on a page. I think we have those same white spaces in our lives, where the untold parts are.
(even when I’m exhausted, I can’t fall asleep without reading, even a sentence or two).
love doesn’t go away when people do.
They’re both shipwrecks at the bottom of the same sea.
so very far from perfect where happy seemed to be.
writing a novel is like trying to fit a quilt the size of a football field into a tiny envelope.
