I make books because I love them as objects; because I want to put the pictures and the words together, because I want to tell a story.
They should make blindfolds with circles cut out where the eyes are, so kidnappers would be able to tell when their victims‘ eyes are closed, so their secret locations aren’t revealed.
I want to invent a What does it do? machine. “What does it do?” you’re probably wondering. Well, I’ll tell you. What it does is makes you wonder: What does it do?
You don’t look like anyone special at all,” I tell him. And I curse him. And I start a club to hate him. And I make a magic spell to get rid of him.
I want to go back to the tell-me-again times when I slept in her bed and we were everything together. When I was everything to her. Everything she needed.
I tell you," said Augustine, "if there is anything that revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is that the masses are to rise, and the under class becomes the upper one.
He looks at me for a long moment. “You’re not the type of woman who gives up easily, are you?” I can’t tell if he admires this trait or sees it as a sign of deteriorating mental health.
Forest deep, silent bells There's a secret no one tells Valley quiet, water still Lynburns watching on the hill Apples red, corn gold Almost everyone grows old
We hang out, we help one another, we tell one another our worst fears and biggest secrets, and then just like real sisters, we listen and don't judge.
Household objects lost meaning. A bedside clock became a hunk of molded plastic, telling something called time, in a world marking its passage for some reason.
I can't tell if she's actually real, or if she's stopped caring if she's real or not. Or is not caring what makes a person real?
Even our parents seemed to agree more and more with the television version of things, listening to the reporters' inanities as though they could tell us the truth about our own lives.
I’d tell you what happened, but I can’t remember all of it. And I don't wanna put words in my dreams thoughts.
Resistance will tell you anything to keep you from doing your work.
I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we´re still alive.
You try to tell yourself that you've been lucky, most incredibly lucky, and usually that works because it's true. Sometimes it doesn't work, that's all. Then you cry.
When I was little, my dad used to tell me, "Will, you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friends nose.
I was tempted to tell her it was because we were British and actually had a sense of humour, but I try not to be cruel to foreigners, especially when they're that strung out.
They never tell you about that either. How the hardest thing a mother has to do is give her child up, let them go, watch them run.
...tell them that we have some good in us, too. And the only thing worth living for is the good. That’s why we’ve got to make sure we pass it on.
Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.
