Find Quotes

“I walked back into the bedroom. Amar was standing by the foot of the bed, playing lazily with the cuffs of his sleeves. I tensed. That foolish disappointment was gone.
“Are you frightened?” he asked.
Don’t cower. I straightened my back. I would’ve stared him in the eyes if I could. “Should I be?”
“I should hope there are more frightening things than sharing a bed with me,” he said. He flourished a bow. “Did I not promise you that we would be equals? Your will is where I lay my head. I will not touch you without your permission.”
I moved to the bed, taking stock of the unnecessary amount of cushions. I could feel Amar’s gaze on me and rather than tossing the cushions to the ground, I stacked them in the middle of the bed. Amar followed me and slid onto the opposite side. The fire in the diyas collapsed with the faintest of sighs.
“A daunting fortress,” he said lazily, prodding one of the pillows. “Have you so little faith in me?”
“Yes.”
He laughed and the sound was unexpectedly…musical.
“The dark is a lovely thing, is it not? It lets us speak in blindness. No scowls or smiles or stares clouding our words.”
I lay in bed, my body taut. Amar continued:
“I spoke no falsehoods in the Night Bazaar,” he said. “I would rip the stars from the sky if you wished it. Anything for you. But remember to trust me. Remember your promise.”
I fell quiet for a moment. “I remember my promise.”
After that, I said nothing.
The air between us could have been whittled in steel. An hour passed before I ventured a glance at Amar. His face was turned from me, leaving only dark curls half visible in the light. Moonlight had limned his silhouette silver. The longer I stared at him, the more something sharp stirred within me and I was reminded of that strange ache in my head, where forgotten dreams jostled for remembrance.”
― Roshani Chokshi, The Star-Touched Queen

“And women like hunting witches too, doing his dirtiest work for you, it's obvious that wanting me dead has really brought you two together.”
― Taylor Swift, Taylor Swift – Viola Play Along | 2nd Edition with Online Audio | 15 Hits Including Love Story, Shake It Off, You Belong with Me, Blank Space, Back to December and More | Play Along Tracks

“One of those awfully simple
and beautiful days
with you
that makes me afraid of dying,
makes me afraid of not being.
When the soft 6 o’clock sun
is slowly sinking behind the harbour,
and your smile, effortless and tidy,
makes time take flight.
You save me from death
but also from lifeless living.
With you,
nothing's wasted on me.
The music of the breeze, the colours
of children’s footsteps, the dancing
trees—I drink them all
and, what’s more, you drink these
with me.
One of those insignificant days
when we do nothing and achieve
nothing, and yet, chasing the ducks
and sharing my last stick of gum
with you is everything.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“The same song was playing the second I met my ex–best friend and the moment I realized I’d lost her.

I met my best friend at a neighborhood cookout the year we would both turn twelve. It was one of those hot Brooklyn afternoons that always made me feel like I'd stepped out of my life and onto a movie set because the hydrants were open, splashing water all over the hot asphalt. There wasn't a cloud in the flawless blue sky. And pretty black and brown people were everywhere.

I was crying. ‘What a Wonderful World’ was playing through a speaker someone had brought with them to the park, and it reminded me too much of my Granny Georgina. I was cupping the last snow globe she’d ever given me in my small, sweaty hands and despite the heat, I couldn’t help imagining myself inside the tiny, perfect, snow-filled world. I was telling myself a story about what it might be like to live in London, a place that was unimaginably far and sitting in the palm of my hands all at once. But it wasn't working. When Gigi had told me stories, they'd felt like miracles. But she was gone and I didn't know if I'd ever be okay again.

I heard a small voice behind me, asking if I was okay. I had noticed a girl watching me, but it took her a long time to come over, and even longer to say anything. She asked the question quietly.

I had never met anyone who…spoke the way that she did, and I thought that her speech might have been why she waited so long to speak to me. While I expected her to say ‘What’s wrong?’—a question I didn’t want to have to answer—she asked ‘What are you doing?’ instead, and I was glad.

“I was kind of a weird kid, so when I answered, I said ‘Spinning stories,’ calling it what Gigi had always called it when I got lost in my own head, but my voice cracked on the phrase and another tear slipped down my cheek. To this day I don’t know why I picked that moment to be so honest. Usually when kids I didn't know came up to me, I clamped my mouth shut like the heavy cover of an old book falling closed. Because time and taught me that kids weren't kind to girls like me: Girls who were dreamy and moony-eyed and a little too nice. Girls who wore rose-tonted glasses. And actual, really thick glasses. Girls who thought the world was beautiful, and who read too many books, and who never saw cruelty coming. But something about this girl felt safe. Something about the way she was smiling as she stuttered out the question helped me know I needn't bother with being shy, because she was being so brave. I thought that maybe kids weren't nice to girls like her either.

The cookout was crowded, and none of the other kids were talking to me because, like I said, I was the neighborhood weirdo. I carried around snow globesbecause I was in love with every place I’d never been. I often recited Shakespeare from memory because of my dad, who is a librarian. I lost myself in books because they were friends who never letme down, and I didn’t hide enough of myself the way everyone else did, so people didn’t ‘get’ me. I was lonely a lot. Unless I was with my Gigi.

The girl, she asked me if it was making me feel better, spinning the stories. And I shook my head. Before I could say what I was thinking—a line from Hamlet about sorrow coming in battalions that would have surely killed any potential I had of making friends with her. The girl tossed her wavy black hair over her shoulder and grinned. She closed her eyes and said 'Music helps me. And I love this song.'

When she started singing, her voice was so unexpected—so bright and clear—that I stopped crying and stared at her. She told me her name and hooked her arm through mine like we’d known each other forever, and when the next song started, she pulled me up and we spun in a slow circle together until we were both dizzy and giggling.”
― Ashley Woodfolk, When You Were Everything

“I love everything about life,” Breitbart says, his voice growing louder now. “Familial love, parental love, spousal love, lust. I love beauty, I love fashion, I love art, I love music, I love food, I love plays, I love drama, I love poetry, I love movies. There are very few things I don’t have an interest in. I love being alive.” He’s gesturing widely, at the window, at the pouring, driving rain. “But even with all these loves,” he says, “you’re born with a set of limitations: your genetic legacy, your time, your place, your family. I could have been born a Rockefeller, but I wasn’t. I could have been born into a family living in a remote tribe where I thought God was a blue elephant, but I wasn’t. You’re born into this reality: that life is full of dangers, it’s an uncertain place. Events occur—you have an accident, someone shoots you, you develop an illness. All sorts of things happen. You have to respond.”
― Susan Cain, Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole

“You’re a brand-new piece of sheet music,” she said slowly, “for a song which, once played, I’d swear I’d always known.”
― Julie Berry, Lovely War

“My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat...”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“I knew how she smelled, and I knew how she acted in front of me, and I knew how she acted in front
of others, and I knew that she liked Mountain Dew and adventure and dramatic gestures, and I knew
that she was funny and smart and just generally more than the rest of us. But I didn’t know what
brought her here, or what kept her here, or what made her leave. I didn’t know why she owned
thousands of records but never told anyone she even liked music. I didn’t know what she did at night,
with the shades down, with the door locked, in the sealed privacy of her room.
And maybe this was what I needed to do above all. I needed to discover what Margo was like when
she wasn’t being Margo.”
― John Green, Paper Towns

“When she returns a few minutes later, the bachelor party is in tow. She gives me a warning look. Don’t act drunk, she mouths. I give her a thumbs-up. Then I jump up and throw my arms around Peter.
“Peter!” I shout above the music. He looks so cute in his button-down and tie. So cute I could cry. I bury my face in his neck like a squirrel. “I’ve missed you so, so very much.”
Peter peers at me. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I only had like two sips. Two drinks.”
“Trina let you drink?”
“No.” I giggle. “I stole sips.”
“We’d better get you out of here before your dad sees you,” Peter says, eyes darting around. My dad is looking through a songbook with Margot, who is giving me a look that says, Get it together.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt a living soul.”
“Let’s go out to the parking lot so you can get some air,” he says, putting an arm around me and hustling me out the door and through the restaurant.
We step outside, and I sway on my feet a little. Peter’s trying not to smile. “You’re drunk.”
“I guess I’m a weightlight!”
“Lightweight.” He pinches my cheeks.
“Right. Weightlight. I mean, lightweight.”
― Jenny Han, Always and Forever, Lara Jean

“I put on my sunglasses and start to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do.” I tap him on the nose for emphasis.
“Hey, I’m older than you,” he objects.
I run my hand along Peter’s cheek and sing, “I am seventeen going on eighteen, I-I-I’ll take care of you.”
“Promise?” he says.
“Sing it just once for me,” I prompt. Peter gives me a look. “Please? I love it when you sing. Your voice is so clean.”
He can’t help but smile. Peter never met a compliment he didn’t smile at. “I don’t know the words,” he protests.
“Yes you do.” I pretend to wave a wand in his face. “Imperio! Wait--do you know what that means?”
“It’s…an unforgivable curse?”
“Yes. Very impressive, Peter K. And what does it do?”
“It makes you do things you don’t want to do.”
“Very good, young wizard. There’s hope for you yet. Now sing!”
“You little witch.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening, and then he softly sings, “I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do…You are seventeen going on eighteen…I’ll depend on you.”
I clap my hands in delight. Is there anything more intoxicating than making a boy bend to your will? I roll closer to him and throw my arms around his neck.
“Now you’re the one making PDAs!” he says.”
― Jenny Han, Always and Forever, Lara Jean

“When The Lamp Is Shattered

When the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed;
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.


As music and splendor
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:--
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.”
― Percy Bysshe Shelley

“Think of all the love poured into him. Think of the tuitions for Montessori and music lessons. Think of the gasoline expended, the treads worn carting him to football games, basketball tournaments, and Little League. Think of the time spent regulating sleepovers. Think of the surprise birthday parties, the daycare, and the reference checks on babysitters. Think of World Book and Childcraft. Think of checks written for family photos. Think of credit cards charged for vacations. Think of soccer balls, science kits, chemistry sets, racetracks, and model trains. Think of all the embraces, all the private jokes, customs, greetings, names, dreams, all the shared knowledge and capacity of a black family injected into that vessel of flesh and bone. And think of how that vessel was taken, shattered on the concrete, and all its holy contents, all that had gone into him, sent flowing back to the earth. Think of your mother, who had no father. And your grandmother, who was abandoned by her father. And your grandfather, who was left behind by his father. And think of how Prince's daughter was now drafted into those solemn ranks and deprived of her birthright — that vessel which was her father, which brimmed with twenty-five years of love and was the investment of her grandparents and was to be her legacy.”
― Ta-Nehisi Coates

“Your heart plays a song like a broken music box, but nothing ever sounded quite so beautiful to me. Together, in the dance of wounded-wing swans we’ll rise above the ruins, melting into the golden light.”
― John Mark Green

“All we can do is to make the best of our friends: love and cherish what is good in them, and keep out of the way of what is bad: but no more think of rejecting them for it than of throwing away a piece of music for a flat passage or two”
― Jon Meacham, Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power

“You are trying your best to make sense of a whole new world and a whole new self. It's scary to take steps towards independence and I wish I could help you feel softer towards yourself while you explore what that actually means. The dynamic nature of your experience right now is completely normal and those high highs and low lows are a ride that you will get used to and learn to appreciate. I know you are overwhelmed by your own emotions a lot these days , and that makes you angry with yourself. But a bird's eye view shows that there is a bottleneck building up, shepherding you toward your own discovery of songwriting as a part of your essence, not just a hobby. And you aren't alone. You are about to find a maze of people who share a love of the thing that will be your lifeboat: music.”
― Sara Bareilles

“No, Tiny. Words. Passion. The danger of falling in love is you mistakenly believe the loved one is the only source of passion in your life. But there is passion everywhere. In music. In words. In the stories you tell and the stories you see. Find passion everywhere, and share it widely. Don't narrow it down to one thin line.”
― David Levithan, Hold Me Closer: The Tiny Cooper Story

“. . . the hardships and perils that eat around the edges of even the strongest loves.”
― Pat Conroy, Beach Music

“THERE ARE ENORMOUS HOLES IN MY EDUCATION. I left college in March of my freshman year and never went back. I’ve never read Moby-Dick and it’s probably too late now. I know nothing about the history of music or the history of art except what I’ve learned through osmosis. But Outsider Art is its own context. I don’t have to know all about the Impressionists or the Abstract Expressionists. I don’t have to be able to fit this art into any historic chronology. I don’t feel like an ignoramus. Irony of ironies, I don’t feel like an outsider—to fall in love I only need eyes.”
― Abigail Thomas, A Three Dog Life: A Memoir

“You can begin to dream, to love, to dance, to read, to sing, to study, to paint, to teach, to draw, to swim, to exercise, to write….!”
― Lailah Gifty Akita, Think Great: Be Great!