Children are not possessions.
Children are not accessories.
Children are not relationship band aids.
They are tiny people with the same amount of feelings as an adult.
But with less capacity to process, express and healthily contain those feelings when necessary.
Be kind to them.
“You’ll notice that I haven’t talked about love. Or about happiness. I’ve talked about becoming - or remaining — the person who can be happy, a lot of the time, without thinking that being happy is what it’s all about. It’s not. It’s about becoming the largest, the most inclusive, most responsive person you can be.”
“Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. as lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. you just work, whether you understand one another or you’re in love or you’re partners in crime. you meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. i don’t know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something.”
“When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man. Being poorly integrated in the universe of humanity and hardly able to adapt herself therein, she, like the child, is able to see it objectively; instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain all.”
“Why do I read?
I just can’t help myself.
I read to learn and to grow, to laugh and to be motivated.
I read to understand things I’ve never been exposed to.
I read when I’m crabby, when I’ve just said monumentally dumb things to the people I love.
I read for strength to help me when I feel broken, discouraged, and afraid.
I read when I’m angry at the whole world.
I read when everything is going right.
I read to find hope.
I read because I’m made up not just of skin and bones, of sights, feelings, and a deep need for chocolate, but I’m also made up of words.
Words describe my thoughts and what’s hidden in my heart.
Words are alive—when I’ve found a story that I love, I read it again and again, like playing a favorite song over and over.
Reading isn’t passive—I enter the story with the characters, breathe their air, feel their frustrations, scream at them to stop when they’re about to do something stupid, cry with them, laugh with them.
Reading for me, is spending time with a friend.
A book is a friend.
You can never have too many.”
“Without feelings perhaps you can feel like a god.”
“Some names will always taste bitter.”
“In order to write the book you want to write, in the end you have to become the person you need to become to write that book.”
“This book, when I am dead, will be
A little faint perfume of me.
People who knew me well will say,
She really used to think that way.”