My former people were not totally wrong. Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison. And if Alex no longer loves me, I can’t bear to think that he might love somebody else.

But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?

Live free or die.

It's funny, isn't it? When you are young you just want to be old, and then later you wish you could go back to being a kid.

How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?

Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.

Dystopian novels help people process their fears about what the future might look like; further, they usually show that there is always hope, even in the bleakest future.

And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.

i think of all the thousands of billions of steps and missteps and chances and coincidences that have brought me here. Brought you here, and it feels like the biggest miracle in the world.

I love you. Remember. They cannot take it

I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.

Spiritual-self consist of self-confidence and self-power.

Few things are more satisfying than seeing your own children have teenagers of their own.

I liked him first, but it doesn't matter. I still like him. That doesn't matter either. Or at least, it's not supposed to.

If thy wealth waste, they wit will give but small warmth.

Which of us can resist the temptation of being thought indispensable?

I'm supporting anything that we can do to find out how this stuff is happening.

We cannot help living in history. We can only fail to be aware of it.

A human being can spend only so much time outside her comfort zone before she realizes she is still tethered to it.

There are two distinct classes of what are called thoughts: those that we produce in ourselves by reflection and the act of thinking and those that bolt into the mind of their own accord.

I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.