Margo no era un milagro. Ella no era una aventura. No era una cosa bella y preciosa. Era una chica.
Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.
-Cual es el placer? -La planificacion, supongo. No lo se. Hacer cosas nunca se siente tan bien como esperas que se sentira.
La manera en la que piensas de una persona no es como ellos realmente son.
That poem is so damned long. You'd think old Walt could have taken a line or two to tell us how to unscrew the door from its jamb.
He aqui un consejo: eres lindo cuando eres seguro de ti. Y menos cuando no eres.
I'm a big believer in random capitalization. The rules of capitalization are so unfair to the words in the middle. (32)
Margo was so beautiful that even her fake smiles were convincing. (54)
The way I figure it, everyone gets a miracle. (Prologue)
Here's what's not beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what they place really is. You see how fake it all is. It's not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. ...
Porque é o máximo ser uma ideia que agrada a todos. Mas eu nunca poderia ser aquela ideia para mim, não totalmente.
And now life has become the future. Every moment of your life is lived for the future-you go to high school so you can go to college so you can get a good job so you can get a nice house so you can afford to send your kids to college so they can get ...
Leaving feels too good, once you leave.
It is so hard to leave-until you leave.
As we walked, I kept taking glances at her through the crowd, quick snapshots: a photographic series entitled Perfection Stands Still While Mortals Walk Past.
You don't give a shit if people like you.
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.
I had not cried for Margo until then, but now finally I did, pounding against the ground and shouting because there was no on to hear: I missed her I missed her I missed her I miss her.
And even though it was ridiculously childish, in the end I had to call myself a faggot, which really annoyed me, because 1. I don't think that word should ever be used by anyone, let alone me, and 2. As it happens, I am not gay, and furthermore, 3. C...
pg. 231-232: They'd given me a minivan. They could have picked any car and they picked a minivan. A minivan. O God of the Vehicular Justice, why dost thou mock me? Minivan, you albatross around my neck! You mark of Cain! You wretched beast high ceili...
To find Margo Roth Spiegelman, you must become Margo Roth Spiegelman. And I had done many of the things she might have done: I had engineered a most unlikely prom coupling. I had quieted the hounds of caste warfare. I had come to feel comfortable ins...
