I had spent so much of life being afraid or living the memory of being afraid.
People shouldn’t have to earn kindness. They should have to earn cruelty.
Sam laughed, a funny, self-deprecating laugh. “You did read a lot. And spent too much time just inside the kitchen window, where I couldn’t see you very well.”
“And not enough time mostly naked in front of my bedroom window?” I teased.
Sam turned bright red. “That,” he said, “is so not the point of this conversation.
There were so many different versions of him. It was countless versions of a song, and they were all original, and they were all true, and they were all right. It should have been impossible. Was I supposed to love them all?
con ella había aprendido que, si le quitabas el cinismo, oías una verdad hecha de cansancio y soledad.
It wasn’t that Henry was less of himself in English. He was less of himself out loud. His native language was thought.
My whole life, I had thought that my story was, again and again: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and he had to risk everything to keep what he loved. But really, the story was: Once upon a time, there was a boy, and his fear ate him alive.
I didn’t know what to say. It kind of hurt just to look at her, in a way i’d forgotten. Sort of like a splinter – not when you first get it under your skin, but the slow ache after it has been taken out.
It’s very ugly’ I said generously. ‘But it looks as though it would laugh at snow. And, if you hit a deer it would hiccup, and keep going.
It’s a strange thing, to be talked about instead of talked to.