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Dead Beautiful (Dead Beautiful, #1) Dead Beautiful by Yvonne Woon
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Dead Beautiful Quotes Showing 1-28 of 28
“Sometimes, you have to look back in order to understand the things that lie ahead.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“... In love, everyone does things that hurt the other person, so there really is no "Right" and "Wrong". You just have to decide what you're willing to forgive”
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
“It helps sometimes to dwell on the good memories. They remind you that happiness does exist, though it may not seem that way now.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Dante laughed. "No cold soup, no goat cheese. I'll make a mental note. And no Gottfried Curse."
"And for you it's no food at all. No sleep. And no tunnels."
"I'm low maintenance."
"Is that what you are? Because I've been trying to figure it out all semester."
"And what have you concluded?"
"A mutant. A rare disease. A creature from the inferno. Dante."
"And what if you found out you were right?" he asked. "What if it meant that I could hurt you?"

"I would say that I'm not scared. Everyone has the ability to hurt. It's the choice that matters.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Everyone has the ability to hurt. It's the choice that matters.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“I'm not afraid of death.....I'm afraid of life without you.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Real love is selfless.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
tags: love
“Crying only makes your problems last longer.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Everyone has the abbility to hurt. It's the choice that matters.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“... In this world, darkness is always looming on the horizon. At Gottfried, instead of avoiding the dark, we meet it head on ...

do the same with your studies and with every obstacle you face in the future. Do not accept the confines of the world as you perceive it.

Instead, look for what you cannot see. There are universes among us, within us. Our only way out of darkness is to learn how to see WITHOUT light.
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“There are no such things as curses; only people and their decisions”
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
“Rules help us live our lives
when we lose the will to do it on our own”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Why do you keep staring at me?" I muttered under my breath.

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned towards me. His voice was hushed. "You have pen on your face. Here," he said, touching the space by his nose.

"Oh." I felt my face go red as I wiped my cheek with my hand.

"That and you remind me of someone I know. Or once knew. But I can't place who it is."

"I thought you didn't have any friends," I challenged.

Dante smiled. "I don't. Only enemies. Which doesn't bode well for you, considering the fact that you must resemble one of them.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“I raised an eyebrow. "You know, you're really good at compliments. Actually, it's surprising that a person with charm like yours has any enemies." The words came out before I could stop them. At this rate I would never be able to ask him about Benjamin Gallow, and it didn't help that every time he looked at me I wanted to melt.
"So, you think I'm charming?" Dante countered, mocking me. "Is that why you keep staring at me?"
"Alarming, not charming. And no, I'm just curious.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Grandfather : Death is nothing to be afraid of.
Renee : It's not death I'm afraid of.
Grandfather: What is it, then?

Renee : LIFE
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
Never only exists in you head. Anything is possible ..”
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
“DANTE: And what if you found out you were right? What if it meant that I could hurt you?

RENEE: I would not say that I'm not scared. Everyone has the ability to hurt. It's the choice that matters.”
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
“Who is he?”
Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.”
I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the Inferno? Did he pick that name just to cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?”
Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.”
I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it.
“He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the Inferno. It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t to anyone.”
Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh . . .” she muttered under her breath.
But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around.
“Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me.
And that’s how I met Dante Berlin.
So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless?
He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet to perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt.
I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.”
He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity.
“You must be Eugene,” I said.
“I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.”
I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described.
“And you are—”
“Renee,” I interjected.
“I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renee will do.”
My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Renee like the philosopher Rene Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.”
I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move.
I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Dante: Evergreens aren't supposed to die

Renee: Everything Dies ..
Yvonne Wood, Dead Beautiful
tags: death
“When I got to Crude Sciences at the end of the day, Dante was waiting for me at our table. This time, with no Latin book, no journal.
“Hello,” he said, pulling my chair out for me.
Surprised, I sat down next to him, trying not to stare at his perfectly formed arms. “Hi,” I said, with an attempt at nonchalance.
“How are you?” I could feel his eyes on me.
“Fine,” I said carefully, as Professor Starking handed out our lab assignments.
Dante frowned. “Not very talkative today, I see.”
I thrust a thermometer into the muddy water of the fish tank in front of us, which was supposed to represent an enclosed ecosystem. “So now you want to talk? Now that you’ve finished your Latin homework?”
After a prolonged period of silence, he spoke. “It was research.”
“Research on what?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
I threw him a suspicious look. “Why’s that?”
“Because I realized I wasn’t paying attention to the right thing.”
“Which is?” I asked, looking back at the board as I smoothed out the hem of my skirt.
“You.”
My lips trembled as the word left his mouth. “I’m not a specimen.”
“I just want to know you.”
I turned to him, wanting to ask him a million questions. I settled for one. “But I can’t know anything about you?”
Dante leaned back in his chair. “My favorite author is Dante, obviously,” he said, his tone mocking me. “Though I’m partial to the Russians. I’m very fond of music. All kinds, really, though I especially enjoy Mussorgsky and Stravinsky or anything involving a violin. They’re a bit dark, no? I used to like opera, but I’ve mostly grown out of it. I have a low tolerance for hot climates. I’ve never enjoyed dessert, though I once loved cherries. My favorite color is red. I often take long walks in the woods to clear my head. As a result, I have a unique knowledge of the flora and fauna of North American. And,” he said, his eyes burning through me as I pretended to focus on our lab, “I remember everything everyone has ever told me. I consider it a special talent.”
Overwhelmed by the sudden influx of information, I sat there gaping, unsure of how to respond.
Dante frowned. “Did I leave something out?”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“On Christmas morning, Dustin knocked on my door. “Miss Winters,” he said cheerfully. “Breakfast.”
I didn’t move. My parents were dead. My boyfriend was dead. My grandfather had a mysterious hidden room that had books about the walking dead—which is what I knew I would feel like if I attempted to stand up.
“I don’t feel well,” I said meekly, and rolled over.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“How long—”
I didn’t even have to finish my sentence. “Ten days.”
“And you? You’re—?”
Dante looked away.
I let out a sigh. So the kiss worked. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He looked older now, more masculine. He aged well, I told him, like an expensive cheese.
He laughed. “Did I ever tell you how romantic you are?”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“She smiled, 'Oh, I'd like to believe that I'm always in love with something. After all, what else is there?”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Absentmindedly, I started doodling in the margins of my paper.
Renee, I wrote in cursive, and then again in bubble letters and then in the loopy handwriting of the mystery note. I drew a tiny picture of the moon above the lake. And then stick figures of people swimming in it. And then for some reason, I wrote Dante. First in print, and then in large, wavy letters, and then in all caps. Dante. Dante. DANTE. I had just finished writing, when I heard someone say my name.
“Renee.”
I shook myself out of my daze to discover that Mr. B. and the entire class were staring at me.
“Earth to Renee. The most primitive tombs. What were they called?” he repeated.
I glanced at my notes for the answer, but they were covered in doodles.
“Dante,” I blurted out, reading the first word I saw. Immediately my face went red. “No, sorry, I meant . . . I meant dolmen.”
I winced, hoping I was right so that I would be saved from further embarrassment. Thankfully, Dante wasn’t in my class.
Mr. B. smiled. “Correct,” he said, returning to the board. He drew a diagram of a stonelike lean-to, which I recognized from the reading. I took notes and kept my head down for the rest of class.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“I... was impulsive and skinny, and wished that I could be more like a character in a novel, so I would finally stop blurting out the wrong things at the wrong time.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Why do we bury our dead?” His nose was dented in at the bridge like a sphinx; the cause of which I could only imagine had been a freak archaeological accident.
I thought about my parents. They had requested in their will that they be buried side by side in a tiny cemetery a few miles from our house. “Because it’s respectful?”
He shook his head. “That’s true, but that’s not the reason we do it.”
But that was the reason we buried people, wasn’t it? After gazing at him in confusion, I raised my hand, determined to get the right answer. “Because leaving people out in the open is unsanitary.”
Mr. B. shook his head and scratched the stubble on his neck.
I glared at him, annoyed at his ignorance and certain that my responses were correct. “Because it’s the best way to dispose of a body?”
Mr. B. laughed. “Oh, but that’s not true. Think of all the creative ways mass murderers have dealt with body disposal. Surely eating someone would be more practical than the coffin, the ceremony, the tombstone.”
Eleanor grimaced at the morbid image, and the mention of mass murderers seemed to wake the rest of the class up. Still, no one had an answer. I’d heard Mr. B. was a quack, but this was just insulting. How dare he presume that I didn’t know what burials meant? I’d watched them bury my parents, hadn’t I? “Because that’s just what we do,” I blurted out. “We bury people when they die. Why does there have to be a reason for everything?”
“Exactly!” Mr. B. grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and began gesticulating with it. “We’ve forgotten why we bury people.
“Imagine you’re living in ancient times. Your father dies. Would you randomly decide to put him inside a six-sided wooden box, nail it shut, then bury it six feet below the earth? These decisions aren’t arbitrary, people. Why a six-sided box? And why six feet below the earth? And why a box in the first place? And why did every society throughout history create a specific, ritualistic way of disposing of their dead?”
No one answered.
But just as Mr. B. was about to continue, there was a knock on the door. Everyone turned to see Mrs. Lynch poke her head in. “Professor Bliss, the headmistress would like to see Brett Steyers in her office. As a matter of urgency.”
Professor Bliss nodded, and Brett grabbed his bag and stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he left.
After the door closed, Mr. B. drew a terrible picture of a mummy on the board, which looked more like a hairy stick figure. “The Egyptians used to remove the brains of their dead before mummification. Now, why on earth would they do that?”
There was a vacant silence.
“Think, people! There must be a reason. Why the brain? What were they trying to preserve?”
When no one answered, he answered his own question.
“The mind!” he said, exasperated. “The soul!”
As much as I had planned on paying attention and participating in class, I spent the majority of the period passing notes with Eleanor. For all of his enthusiasm, Professor Bliss was repetitive and obsessed with death and immortality. When he faced the board to draw the hieroglyphic symbol for Ra, I read the note Eleanor had written me.

Who is cuter?
A. Professor Bliss
B. Brett Steyers
C. Dante Berlin
D. The mummy


I laughed. My hand wavered between B and C for the briefest moment. I wasn’t sure if you could really call Dante cute. Devastatingly handsome and mysterious would be the more appropriate description. Instead I circled option D. Next to it I wrote Obviously! and tossed it onto her desk when no one was looking.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Oh, come on. Haven't you seen him?" Eleanor exclaimed.
It's because he's tall, isn't it? Tall and has long hair." Even Nathaniel's crude description made me want to see Dante again. Unfortunately, he never came to dinner, probably because he lived off campus.
"He's really smart," I murmured.
"And confident," Eleanor added.
"It's like he's older than everyone else," I said "Like he knows what he want and isn't afraid of taking it."
"What she's saying is that he's manly." Eleanor grinned.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
“Why are you doing this? I want you to be alive."
"Because," he said, tracing a finger along my cheek. "Real love is selfless.”
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful