From my experience, honey, if he seems too good to be true—he probably is.
Sex and the City, Candace Bushnell
Sometimes I feel as though there are two me’s, one coasting directly on top of the other: the superficial me, who nods when she’s supposed to nod and says what she’s supposed to say, and some other, deeper part, the part that worries and dreams… Most of the time they move along in sync and I hardly notice the split, but sometimes it feels as though I’m two whole different people and I could rip apart at any second.
Delirium, Lauren Oliver
But I must admit I miss you quite terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby. I go to bed early and rise late and feel as if I have hardly slept.
Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters
She fell, she hurt, she felt. She lived. And for all the tumble of her experiences, she still had hope. Maybe this next time would do the trick. Or maybe not. But unless you stepped into the game, you would never know.
Sarah Dessen, This Lullaby
There’s no way for them to take away my sadness, but they can make sure I am not empty of all the other feelings.
Love is the Higher Law, David Levithan
You may never have proof of your importance but you are more important than you think. There are always those who couldn’t do without you. The rub is that you don’t always know who.
All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, Robert Fulghum
You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.
No Country For Old Men, Cormac McCarthy
In a child’s eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I am convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe.
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, N.K. Jemisin
Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
I have so much to tell you, the problem isn’t that I’m running out of time, I’m running out of room, this book is filling up, there couldn’t be enough pages, I looked around the apartment this morning for one last time and there was writing everywhere, filling the walls and mirrors, I rolled up the rugs so I could write on the floors, I’d written on the windows and around the bottles of wine we were given but never drank, I only wore short sleeves, even when it’s cold, because my arms are books too. But there’s too much to express. I’m sorry.
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer (via nubivagantmusings)