kiranapoleon’s most recent Quotables

I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow.

How accidental our existences are, really, and how full of influence by circumstance.

Je me demande, dit-il, si les étoiles sont éclairées afin que chacun puisse un jour retrouver la sienne.

What I wouldn't give to have tired of you.

I think maybe I've never wanted this to change. Everything, everything changes. Everything changes, but this? This still hasn't. Not for me. It hasn't lessened. I saw you this morning, and, and, in the middle of most nights when I can't sleep, I still replay you.

I actually felt awed by the remote possibilities of the person you liked ever liking you back a corresponding amount.

Some people, every now and then, simply had to have One Too Many, go drifty voiced and slouch mouthed, swimming willfully around in their own sadness as if it were hot springs.

I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.

I have never seen a picture of Sienna Miller where I didn't say, "That girl's pretty. Who is that?"

But the fact was, I suppose, there were powerful tides tugging us apart by then, and it only needed something like that to finish the task. If we'd understood that back then--who knows?-- maybe we'd have kept a tighter hold of one another.

It never occurred to me that our lives, until then so closely interwoven, could unravel and separate over a thing like that.

The earlier years--the ones I've just been telling you about-- they tend to blur into each other as a kind of golden time, and when I think about them at all, even the not-so-great things, I can't help feeling a sort of glow.

Maybe all of us at Hailsham had our little secrets like that--little private nooks created out of thin air where we could go off alone with our fears and longings.

We both felt deep down some tug, some old wish to believe again in something that was once close to our hearts.

The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing.

Don leans over to her in the orange dark to tell her something, his peace as palpable as hers. Like some bon-fire from ten years before. Like no human has ever been foolish. Like there's no such thing as forgiveness. Like there's nothing to forgive.

Once, at twenty, she memorized a Dylan Thomas that electrified her. One that promised all the comfort she needed to keep herself afloat when her hour came. She stored it up, her maximum armor. No harm could have the upper hand, so long as she recalled those transforming words.

When the airplane ticket with your name on it disappears, the seat flies empty. Does the world get poorer when a hundred-dollar bill falls down a sewer? For that matter, does the world get richer when we strike gold or cut down trees?

You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.

The woman kneels in her garden, kneading her fifty square feet of earth. She coaxes up leaves, gets them to catch a teacupful of the two calories per cubic centimeter that the sun, in its improvident abundance, spills forever on the earth for no good reason except that it knew we were coming.