The pleasure isn't in doing the thing; the pleasure is in planning it.
And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.
She loved mysteries so much, that she became one.
I leave, and the leaving is so exhilarating I know I can never go back. But then what? Do I just keep leaving places, and leaving them, and leaving them, tramping a perpetual journey?
My heart is really pounding," I said. "That's how you know you're having fun," Margo said.
The fundamental mistake I had always made - and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make - was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.
A Margo for each of us--and each more mirror than window.
I can almost imagine a happiness without her, the ability to let her go, to feel our roots are connected even if I never see that leaf of grass again.
I know it's impossible for you to see your peers this way, but when you're older, you start to see them--the bad kids and the good kids and all kids--as people. They're just people, who deserve to be cared for.
I am thinking that I don't want this to happen. I don't want to die. I don't want my friends to die. And to be honest, as the time slows down and my hands are in the air, I am afforded the chance to think one more thought, and I think about her. I bl...
I spy with my little eye a great story.
The last time I was this scared, I peed myself." "The last time I was this scared," Radar says, "I actually had to face a Dark Lord in order to make the world safe for wizards.
But I had to kill you, because the only other possible ending was us doing it, which I wasn't really emotionally ready to write about at ten.' 'Fair enough,' I say. 'But in the revision, I want to get some action.
I don't believe in prom,' I reminded her as she rounded a corner. I expertly angled my raisin bran to accomodate the g-forces. I'd done this before.
It was a lame string, for sure, but it was the one I had left and every paper girl needs at least one string, right? (58)
Physical space between us evaporates. We play the broken strings of our instruments one last time
No you don't", she answers, and she is right. She can see it in my face- I understand now that I can't be her and she can't be me. Maybe Whitman had a gift I don't have. But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot bec...
You listen to people so that you can imagine them, and your hear all the terrible and woderful things people do to themselves and to one another, but in the end the listening exposes you even more than it exposes the people you're trying to listen to...
Jesus, kid, you're almost a detective. All you need now is a gun, a gut, and three ex-wives.
i'd been in the dark so long I was still craving it.
But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my tumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more s...
