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Pity is destruction wearing a mask of sympathy. Pity strips you bare. Pity shrinks.
No one is all bad. No one is all good. We live as equals in the murky gray between.
Memory, Saffy thought, was unreliable. Memory was a thing to be savored or reviled, never to be trusted.
It was the scariest thing about being a woman. It was hardwired, ageless, the part that knew you could have the good without the hurt, but it wouldn’t be nearly as exquisite.
Eyes wide, heart open.
She was just a Girl. You were only you.
It would be a tragedy, she thought—inhumane—if we were defined only by the things we left behind.
You don’t need to have it all. You only need to figure out how much is enough.
The good is simply the stuff worth remembering. The good is the point of it all.
