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you can have money or you can have pride, and guess which one changes the world?
sociopolitical compromise meant the lesser of two evils was often not letting things get immeasurably worse—was
Meredith did not have resting bitch face. She had active bitch face, because everything she did was with purpose. (But in moments of rest it was extraordinarily bitchy, too.)
I’ve learned to expect the least out of the people I thought the highest of.
“Meredith, I think you’re doing the thing where you just say words in any order to avoid voicing anything meaningful,”
you can almost forget what kind of madness lives in your chest until it shows up again to destroy you.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is my inconvenient grief obstructing your natural talent for spitefulness?”
Desire is desperation;
Arthur was very good, he realized, at being loved for a brief window of time; in the honeymoon space where nobody really had to know him.
In life there is no narrative, no neatness to the ending.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Keep trying. Just take the beating and keep going.” “What if I’m not a masochist?” “You’re a complete masochist, first of all—” “Okay, then what if it’s hard and it sucks and I’m tired and I just want to be happy?”
Sometimes you go to prison. Sometimes your father procreates with his secretary. Sometimes you summon a plague of insects and burn down your dining room. Arthur: That’s life, baby! Meredith: That’s life!
It’s not like forgiveness is some single-use act, like swiping a credit card. I think it’s more like a policy.
