My heart was a little bit broken, but I still had to go to school. I buttoned my dress shirt over it and my winter coat, too. I hoped it didn't show too much.

It was strange, really. A couple months ago, I had thought I couldn’t live without him. Apparently I could.

I wondered if the person who really loves you is the person who knows all your stories, the person who WANTS to know all your stories.

Love stories are written in millimeters and milliseconds with a fast, dull pencil whose marks you can barely see, they are written in miles and eons with a chisel on the side of a mountiantop

It was odd to have something so personal out there in that way, but the good thing about art is that no one necessarily knows what you mean by it anyway.

It was funny how dad was more honest in a book that anyone in the world could pick up and read than he could be talking to me. Or maybe it was sad. One or the other. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

I was crying a little for the boy I had wanted him to be and the boy he hadn’t turned out to be.

Each period had required me to be a slightly different person, and that was exhausting. I wondered if school had always felt this way and whether it was like this for everone.

But then again, maybe 'I will' is nicer. It has the future in it. 'I do' just has the present.

But now, at this moment, you can't hook your boat to mine, 'cause I'm liable to sink us both. (222)

Hi there, " squeaked a precocious little voice, "you are speaking to Chloe Fusakawa, and I have just learned how to answer the phone.

Lift up your eyes unto mine air and see the love floating there for I am Paradise and I am everywhere.

Love can only live and thrive in love.

I think what irks me is that I feel like women are really being compartmentalized physically, and it's been done so much that now we're doing it to ourselves. I don't like it.

I think heroism is when somebody really goes above and beyond the call of duty and does something outstanding for either themselves or somebody else.

To realise our dreams we must decide to wake up.

The rose petal floats on water. The kingfisher flashes above the pond. Life and beauty swirl in the midst of death.

Atheism was natural enough, but heresy seemed strange. For, surely, if one could believe anything, one could believe everything.

My psychoanalysis has equipped you with the equivalent of a train ticket to recovery. It is now your decision whether or not you choose to make full use of it.

Inside every sane person there’s a madman struggling to get out.

That which we obtain too easily, we esteem too lightly.