Quotes from E. Lockhart

But also, he doesn't like to let us off easy. He wants to make us think—even when we don't feel like thinking.

Maybe we have known each other always. Maybe our hearts have encountered each other somehow,

It's a tiny box, Mirren. Me and Mummy. Me and my pills. Me and my pain. I don't want to live there anymore.

No. The question is: how to be a good person if I don't believe anymore.

A game like that is typical for Tipper. She looks for ways to squeeze any last drop of pleasure from a situation, to create joy and surprise whenever she can.

Immie put on her sunglasses. "Forrest's writing a novel." "What kind of novel?" asked Jule. "A little Samuel Beckett meets Hunter S. Thompson," said Forrest. "And I'm a big fan of Pynchon, so he's an influence.

I am not talking about fate. I don't believe in destiny or soul mates or the supernatural. I just mean we understood each other. All the way. - Cady

I loved the hole in his jeans and the dirt on his bare feet and the scab on his elbow and the scar that laced through one eyebrow.

You better live this life of yours while you can—real living, the kind where you get a little dirt on your halo—'cause, babe, not one of us knows how long we got.

It's better, I think, to move on. To look forward.

Like, in Vanity Fair, Becky Sharp is one big ambition machine. She'll stop at zero. Jane Eyre has temper tantrums, throws herself on the floor. Pip in Great Expectations is deluded and money hungry. All of them want a better life and go after it, and all of them are morally compromised. That makes them interesting.

as if this tragedy marked the end of the family. And perhaps it did. And perhaps it did not.

Well me the real reason. I mean, haven't we been friends long enough that I deserve the truth?

My feelings leak out my eyes, crumpling my face, heave through my frame

I grew up with very normal, stable people," Brooke continued. "We acted normal all day long in my family. So normal I wanted to stab my eyes out. So I'm like an expert. And you? You are not normal. You should think about getting help for it, is what I'm saying.

It is possible people are curious about us because we do not show them our hearts. It is possible that we enjoy the way people are curious about us.

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two. My grandmother, my grandmother. Gone forever, though I could smell her Chanel perfume on the fabrics.

Johnny, he is bounce, effort, and snark.

Still, she has an aura of mystery that stops her from being teased or singled out for typical high school unpleasantness. Her mother is a Sinclair.

It is not glamorous that I can't drive a car. It is not mysterious to be home on a Saturday night, reading a novel in a pile of smelly golden retrievers. However, I am not immune to the feeling of being viewed as a mystery, as a Sinclair, as part of a privileged clan of special people, and as part of a magical, important narrative, just because I am part of this clan. My mother is not immune to it, either. This is who we have been brought up to be. Sinclairs. Sinclairs.

He didn't shut up when people wanted him to, he made them listen - and then he listened in return. He refused to take things lightly, though he was always quick to laugh.

The woman pushed up the arms of her long-sleeved shirt and turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there.

So just be normal," he says, "at least for today. Let's pretend I'm not a mess, let's pretend you're not angry. Let's act like we're friends and forget what happened." I don't want to pretend. I don't want to be friends. I don't want to forget. I am trying to remember.

She had done the deed with credible efficiency. With style, even. She had committed murder with an effing kitty-cat statue in a beautiful state park over a massive and scenic ravine. There had not been a single witness. She had left no blood anywhere.