Amelia Unabridged

Everything is silly, dear. Life is too brief to be anything else.

There's nothing in the world a good book can't cure

I like to imagine my used books as little soldiers that have gone off to serve their duty elsewhere before coming into my hands. Books are something to be stepped inside of, to be occupied and lived in.

Everything is a story, not just writing. You need to find the story that means something to you, a story you like telling.

Fate doesn't need to be believed in for it to be true.

I hate endings. Hate them. If the story is good, it’s never going to be long enough.

One of the things I love—loved—about books is that no matter how dreadful the characters’ plights or how insurmountable the conflicts, everything turns out for the best in the end. Not necessarily happily ever after, and maybe not happy at all, but necessary and true. If there was pain, it was to be for personal growth. If there was loss, it was so something better or more essential could be introduced.

Reading, for me, has always been more like playing a video game than watching a movie, an active experience that used to leave me physically and emotionally wrought.

But if the world must be made of car crashes and unspeaking books, let there be no guilt in companionship, no matter how brief.

There is a moment between sleep and waking where anything can happen and it feels like a person might be wiped clean, their entire life rewritten almost by accident

Let me give you stories.

Nolan says nothing as we watch Alex hurry away, but he tries to murder me with his eyes. "What?" "You know what," he says. "We could be inside eating food or reading books or . . ." He trails off, cheeks red. I grin. "Kissing?" He glares as his face reddens further, but his voice is even when he says, "Yes, if you'd like.

When our lips meet again, I feel the fire spread from his body to mine, burning any protests to ash. His hands tangle in my hair, and I don't think of Orman or Jenna. I don't think about mysterious packages, pinky promises, or how we are kissing in front of his sisters' graves. Instead, I try to keep my heart from splitting in two as we build something we know is going to break.

I'm okay to walk," I tell him, my voice steady. "Really." There is a time to talk about what happened at the lighthouse, but it is not now. "I don't want... I don't want you to be hurt anymore," Nolan says, and - not to be outdone - he brings both of his hands up to cradle my face. "You've been hurt enough.

Ask me how much I care about your festival right now. She's hurt. It's my fault. We're pulling up to the door.

Sorry doesn’t help. And there is nothing you can say to someone who is hurting to make them feel better.

When I meet people, I always imagine what world hides inside them.

But more than that," I say, "they love each other's secrets. She loves his journals and he loves her photos. She tolerates his brain-damaged dog and he lets her sit closer than he's used to letting people near him.

She's the most beautiful girl in existence. She makes everything brighter around her because she is filled with stories, and even when she thinks she can't take any more, she lets in another chapter and other. Because it's who she is.

Only you can provide the courage necessary to tirelessly pursue your choices, and therefore it must be you who decides the path before you

I need to explain why I've changed my mine, but how do you explain clever winds and invisible whales to lawyers in suits?