“In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.”
“Everyone has something of beauty about them. But loving lets you look, and look, and look again. You notice the back of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you look blind and you see it all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why's, you can love those parts too, and it's a love at once more complicated and more complete.”
“Love changes what is probable and makes unlikely things possible.”
“I love.
The most reckless thing of all.”
“I climb into the dark for you
Are you waiting in the stars for me?”
“Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.”
“Love has different shades. Like the way I loved Cassia when I thought she'd never love me. The way I loved her on the Hill. The way I love her now that she came into the canyon for me. It's different. Deeper. I thought I loved her and wanted her before, but as we walk through the canyon together I realize this could be more than a new shade. A whole new color.”
“It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.”
“Everyone has something of beauty about them.”
“This is a cruel thing to do because when someone knows your story they know you. And they can hurt you. It's why I give mine away in pieces, even to Cassia.”
“We can either try to change everything or just make the most of whatever time we have.”
“For a moment nothing happens. The figure stands still and I stand cold and alive and-
He starts to run. I make my way down the rocks, slipping, sliding, trying to get to the plain. I wish, I think, my feet clumsy, moving too fast, not fast enough, I wish i could run, I wish I'd written a whole poem, I wish I kept the compass-
And then I reach the plain and wish for nothing but what I have. Ky. Running toward me. I have never seen him run like this, fast, free, strong, wild. He looks so beautiful, his body moves so right. He stops just close enough for me to see the blue of his eyes and forget the red on my hands and the green I wish I wore. "You're here," he says, breathing hard and hungry. sweat and dirt cover his face, and he looks at me as though I'm the only thing he ever needed to see. I open my mouth to say yes. But I only have time to breathe in before he closes the last of the distance. All I know is the kiss.”
“Cassia and I sit as near to each other as we can. She leans into me and I keep my arms around her. I don't fool myself that I hold her together- she does that on her own- but holding her keeps me from flying apart.”
“I didn't know all that was inside of him, either. I thought I did, but people run deep and complicated like rivers, hold their shape and are carved upon like stone.”
“Because once you love, it is gone. You love and you cannot call it back.”
“I run for her.
I run for them.
For me.”
“We have all been carved out by our sorrow. Cut deep like canyon walls.”
“Because in the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.”
“Death,” I say. “ It’s the one thing they haven’t fully conquered. They want to know more about it.”
“I never named anything I've written before
no reason to
since
it would all have the same title anyway
-for you-
but I would call this one
one night
that night
when we let the world be only you
and only me
we stood on it while it spun
green and blue and red
the music ended
but we
were still
singing”
“I decided that it was the thoughts in your own mind that mattered more than anything else.”
“And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.”
“I marked a map for every death
For every ache and blow
My world was all a page of black
With nothing left but snow.”
“Maybe only parts of our stories can keep us safe. The whole can feel like too much to bear.”
“I have a sense that we have not yet arrived, that we are still reaching. For each other. For who we are meant to be.”
“Two little dark figures, looking up. Are they looking at me? Is is him? This far away there's only one way to know. I point to the sky.”
“One night," Ky says, "doesn't seem like much to ask."
I don't speak. He moves closer and I feel his cheek against mine and breathe in the scent of sage and pine, of old dust and fresh water and of him.
"For one night, can we just think of each other? Not the Society or the Rising or even our families?"
"No," I say.
"No what?" He tangles one of his hands in my hair, the other draws me closer still.
"No, I don't think we can," I say. "And no, it isn't too much to ask.”
“Time, Vick said, "is what we don't have.”
“She cried before she slept. I reached out to touch the ends of her hair. She didn't notice. I didn't know what to do. Listening to her made me ache. I felt tears stream down my face too. And when I accidentally brushed Eli with my arm his face was wet where his tears ran down. We have all been carved out by our sorrow. Cut deep like canyon walls.”
“I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.”
“Nick drank the coffee, the coffee according to Hopkins. The coffee was bitter. Nick laughed. It made a good ending to the story. His mind was starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired enough. He spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into the fire. He lit a cigarette and went inside the tent. He took off his shoes and trousers, sitting on the blankets, rolled the shoes up inside the trousers for a pillow and got in between the blankets.
Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire when the night wind blew on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp was perfectly quiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummed close to his ear. Nick sat up and lit a match. The mosquito was on the canvas, over his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it. The mosquito made a satisfactory hiss in the flame. The match went out. Nick lay down again under the blankets. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He was sleepy. He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went to sleep.”
“I do love you. I think you know that, but just in case...I love you. ”
“[M]aleness in America," as Margaret Mead wrote, "is not absolutely defined; it has to be kept and reearned every day, and one essential element in the definition is beating women in every game that both sexes play." Nothing seems to crush the masculine petals more than a bit of feminist rain - a few drops are perceived as a downpour. "Men view even small losses of deference, advantages or opportunities as large threats, " wrote William Goode, one of many sociologists to puzzle over the peculiarly hyperbolic male reaction to minuscule improvements to women's rights.”
“Writing is a kind of repository and can help create a space for the accommodation of new thoughts and feelings. If you don't write these stories down, your heart will be filled up and broken by them.”
“Love. Was I really calling it love again? I wished I could say that it felt like love and that was the only way to describe it. But truthfully, it felt like so much more than the meager, inefficient English word that was the only way I could describe my feelings for him. It consumed me completely, coated my blood in emotion, exhaled and inhaled with every breath I took, wrapped around every thought and action; the mere word "love" couldn't fully encapsulate the true definition of my feelings for Kiran, but it was a starting point. I had the rest if eternity to figure out a better way to say it.”
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