My Friends

by Fredrik Backman

When you get old, gravity pulls the corners of your mouth down, the road to a smile grows longer.

Being a parent is so strange, all our children’s pain belongs to us, but so does their joy.

Art is nothing for people with armor, you need a thin skin, but someone like that isn’t only sensitive to beauty, but to everything.

It is an act of violence when an adult yells at a child, all adults know that deep down, because all adults were once little. Yet we still do it. Time after time, we fail at being human beings.