Neil Gaiman · 181 pages
Rating: (369.2K votes)
“I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.”
“Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.”
“I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy.”
“Books were safer than other people anyway.”
“Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.”
“Adults follow paths. Children explore. Adults are content to walk the same way, hundreds of times, or thousands; perhaps it never occurs to adults to step off the paths, to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find the spaces between fences. I was a child, which meant that I knew a dozen different ways of getting out of our property and into the lane, ways that would not involve walking down our drive.”
“I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.”
“Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "That's why they're monsters.”
“And did I pass?" The face of the old woman on my right was unreadable in the gathering dusk. On my left the younger woman said, "You don't pass or fail at being a person, dear.”
“Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren't.”
“I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children's stories. They were better than that. They just were.”
“You don't pass or fail at being a person, dear.”
“Nothing's ever the same," she said. "Be it a second later or a hundred years. It's always churning and roiling. And people change as much as oceans.”
“Different people remember things differently, and you'll not get any two people to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not.”
“That's the trouble with living things. Don't last very long. Kittens one day, old cats the next. And then just memories. And the memories fade and blend and smudge together.”
“Growing up, I took so many cues from books. They taught me most of what I knew about what people did, about how to behave. They were my teachers and my advisers.”
“. . . I lay on the bed and lost myself in the stories.
I liked that. Books were safer than other people anyway.”
“I make art, sometimes I make true art, and sometimes it fills the empty places in my life. Some of them. Not all.”
“How can you be happy in this world? You have a hole in your heart. You have a gateway inside you to lands beyond the world you know. They will call you, as you grow.”
“I saw the world I had walked since my birth and I understood how fragile it was, that the reality was a thin layer of icing on a great dark birthday cake writhing with grubs and nightmares and hunger.”
“As we age, we become our parents; live long enough and we see faces repeat in time.”
“Adults should not weep, I knew. They did not have mothers who would comfort them.”
“A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story change.”
“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet, but they are never lost for good.”
“It's always too late for sorries, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I was a normal child. Which is to say, I was selfish and I was not entirely convinced of the existence of things that were not me, and I was certain, rock-solid, unshakeably certain, that I was the most important thing in creation. There was nothing that was more important to me than I was.”
“Does it make you feel big to make a little boy cry?”
“I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children stories. They were better than than that. They just were.
Adult stories never made sense, and they were slow to start. They made me feel like there were secrets, Masonic, mythic secrets, to adulthood. Why didn't adults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers and dangerous fairies?”
“Peas baffled me. I could not understand why grown-ups would take things that tasted so good raw, and then put them in tins, and make them revolting.”
“What does he have planned?”
“He said it was a surprise, but apparently it includes all my favorites things about the city.”
“That’s cute. Maybe it’ll be the refresher you guys need. It’s hard being apart for so long, especially when there is a super-hot ex-boyfriend living next to you.”
I give her a pointed look.
“And speak of the devil. Look whose truck just pulled into the driveway.” Amanda puts her drink on the coffee table and crawls on top of me, her knees digging into my stomach as she tries to catch a view of Aaron.
“Will you please get off me?”
“I want to see what he looks like. I want to see these muscles you speak of.” Amanda reaches the window, but I yank on her body so she can’t sneak a peek. “Hey, stop that, I can’t see.”
“Exactly. He’ll catch you looking, and I don’t want him thinking it’s me.”
“Don’t be paranoid. He won’t think that. Now let me catch a glimpse.” Pushing down on my head, trying to climb over me, she reaches for the blinds, but I hold strong and grip her around the waist, using my legs to hold her down as well. “Stop it.” She swats at my head. “Just a little looksy.”
“No, he’ll see you.”
“He won’t.”
“He will.”
“He—”
Knock, knock.
We still, our heads snapping to the front door.
“Is someone at the door?” Amanda whispers, one of her hands holding on to my ponytail.
“That’s what a knock usually means,” I whisper back.
“Is it him?”
Oh hell.
“I have no idea.” I hold still, trying not to move in case the person on the other side of the door can hear us.
“Answer it,” Amanda scolds.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if it’s Aaron, I don’t want you anywhere near him. You’ll embarrass me, I know it.”
Amanda scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She pushes off me, her hand palming my face for a brief second. “I’ll answer the door.” When she places one of her feet on the floor, I hold her in place.
“Oh no, you don’t. You’re not answering that door. Just be still, the person will go away.”
Knock, knock.
“You’re being rude,” Amanda says as she plows her elbow into my thigh, causing me to buckle over in pain. She frees herself from my grip and rushes to the door. Right before she opens it, she fluffs her hair. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I don’t even have to ask if it’s Aaron because that’s just my luck. Also, Amanda makes a low whistle sound when she opens the door.
“Amanda?” Aaron’s voice floats into my house.
“Aaron Walters, look . . . at . . . you.” I sit up just in time to see Amanda give him a very slow once-over. “You were right, Amelia, he has gotten sexier.”
What? Jesus!
I hop off the couch, limping ever so slightly from the dead leg Amanda gave me. “I didn’t say that.”
Amanda waves her hand. “It was in the realm of that. Come in, come in. We need to catch up.” Amanda wraps her hand around Aaron’s arm and pulls him into the house. When she passes me, she winks and squeezes his arm while mouthing, “He’s huge.”
I shut the door behind them and bang my head on it a few times before joining them in the living room. I knew Amanda’s visit was going to be interesting”
“because she would not believe that she was no different than her parents, that seeing him as only Korean—good or bad—was the same as seeing him only as a bad Korean. She could not see his humanity, and Noa realized that this was what he wanted most of all: to be seen as human.”
“I told him some of my best stories: the one about the sewer and the train tracks and the neighbor's dogs. Weylyn seemed unimpressed.
"What? You got something better?"
Weylyn smiled, "I was young once, too.”
“The only rule that counted was to not get caught.”
“I will say that the cross of materialism is that it never quite succeeds in believing what it preaches, in thinking its own thought. This may sound complicated, but is in fact simple: the materialist says, for example, that we are not free, though he is convinced, of course, that he asserts this freely, that no one is forcing him to state this view of the matter — neither parents, not social milieu, nor biological inheritance. He says that we are wholly determined by our history, but he never stops urging us to free ourselves, to change our destiny, to revolt where possible! He says that we must love the world as it is, turning our backs on past and future so as to live in the present, but he never stops trying, like you or me, when the present weighs upon us, to change it in hope of a better world. In brief, the materialist sets forth philosophical these that are profound, but always for you and me, never for himself. Always, he reintroduces transcendence — liberty, a vision for society, the ideal — because in truth he cannot not believe himself to be free, and therefore answerable to values higher than nature and history.”
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