Letters to the Lost (Letters to the Lost, #1)

by Brigid Kemmerer

Sometimes I feel like the girl. Sometimes I feel like the bird. Sometimes I feel like the photographer, unable to do anything but watch. Kevin Carter killed himself after he won the Pulitzer. Sometimes I think I understand why.

Mom used to say that a picture wasn’t worth anything if it didn’t produce a reaction, that it takes talent to capture feeling with an image.

Sometimes I think fate conspires against us. Or maybe fate conspires with us.

There’s a definition for insanity that talks about doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result.

When everything goes to hell around you, the only way to go is forward.

Men can be like toddlers, Juliet. Sometimes all they need is something shiny to distract them.

“One day isn’t your whole life, Murph.” He waits until I look at him. “A day is just a day.”

‘There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, when the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay.’

“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” I can’t remember the last time I felt like the master of my own fate.

“We were wrong,” she says. “You make your own path.”