Barbara Kingsolver

There’s no more blood here to give, just war wounds. Madness. A world of pain, looking to be killed.

I was and always will be an idiot.

Then she was gone. And I was a mess. She knows my name. That’s what I was thinking. Not, that was weird, what a righteously fucked-up thing to say, that I’m going to end up in prison. What can I say. Love. It’s an unexcusable train wreck.

People love to believe in danger, as long as it’s you in harm’s way, and them saying bless your heart.

If you’re surprised a mom would discuss boyfriend hotness with a kid still learning not to pick his nose, you’ve not seen the far end of lonely.

A city is the weirdest, loneliest thing.

What I said about people, that if they care, they can tell one kind of a thing from another? Big if. Possibly the biggest if on the planet of earth. Why notice zero on snakes, and a thousand percent on certain things about people?

If you’ve noticed, it’s the prettiest people that everybody wants to believe, and next after that, the most wrecked.

At the time, I thought my life couldn’t get any worse. Here’s some advice: Don’t ever think that.

I told her nobody ever asked me that question before, about growing up and what I wanted to be, so I didn’t know. Mainly, still alive.