I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.

Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.

A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.

Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.

It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.