this book gives "you may have my number, you can take my name but you’ll never have my heart" vibes
When Adeline told the girl about her trip, Isabellethis book gives "you may have my number, you can take my name but you’ll never have my heart" vibes
When Adeline told the girl about her trip, Isabelle had only shrugged, and said, "I like it here." As if you couldn't like one place and want to see another.
Stories are a way to preserve one's self. To be remembered. And to forget. Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books. Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
Addie feels like a museum sometimes, one only she can visit.
She pauses at MEMOIR, studying the titles on the spines, so many I's and Me's and My's, possessive words for possessive lives. What a luxury, to tell one's story. To be read, remembered.
After so many years, Addie thought she'd come to terms with time.
Henry has heard that grief has stages. He wonders if the same is true for love.
"But art," she says with a quieter smile, "art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They're like weeds, always finding their way up."...more
I wondered how she knew, what magic had parked between them, what it was that made a woman sure that a particular man was the right one. I sat up straI wondered how she knew, what magic had parked between them, what it was that made a woman sure that a particular man was the right one. I sat up straighter, waiting to be enlightened.
If I could speak the will of the gods and see the very fabric of fate, I could command attention and respect. With all of my heart, that was what I wanted. To be something other than myself; to speak in someone else's words instead of my own.
When I had told of my encounter with Apollo, I had been met with scoffing first, anger later. But everyone smiled at Paris' story. I wasn't sure that they believed him either, but they were happy to listen.
But I cannot hope for the future, for I know what it is to become.
Fury blooms inside me, though I know rage will do me no good. Why rail against my sister's good fortune? It will not bring any of my children home to me.
"I've learned the rhythms of the seasons, and how even the harshest of winters is always followed by spring."
"Why would I be afraid? You can only fear if you have something to lose, and I have nothing." ...more
Rintaro's grandpa had always handled the books in his shop with the greatest of care, but that didn't mean he treated them as decorations. He hadn't bRintaro's grandpa had always handled the books in his shop with the greatest of care, but that didn't mean he treated them as decorations. He hadn't been obsessed with having some sort of gorgeous exhibition - he had concentrated on creating a well-maintained space filled with the kind of books people wanted to reach out and pick up, no matter how old or well-worn they might be. That was what had made Rintaro a reader.
'Books have tremendous power. But take care. It's the book that holds the power, not you.'
'It's not true that the more you read, the more you see of the world. No matter how much knowledge you cram into your head, unless you think with your own mind, walk with your own feet, the knowledge you acquire will never be anything more than empty and borrowed.'
'Books can't live your life for you. The reader who forgets to walk on his own two feet is like an old encyclopaedia, his head stuffed with out-of-date information. Unless someone else opens it up, it's nothing but a useless antique.'
When book-lovers talked about books, their faces seemed to light up.
'Being able to express shallow words of sympathy in a sweet voice doesn't make someone a caring, compassionate soul. What's important is the ability to have empathy for another human being - to be able to feel their pain, to walk alongside them in their suffering.'
'In our stifling daily lives, we're all so occupied with ourselves that we stop thinking about others. When a person loses their own heart, they can't feel another's pain. They lie, hurt others, use weaker people as stepping stones to get ahead - they stop feeling anything. The world has become full of those kinds of people.'
'A book that sits on a shelf is nothing but a bundle of paper. Unless it is opened, a book possessing great power or an epic story is mere scraps of paper. But a book that has been cherished and loved; filled with human thoughts, has been endowed with a soul.'
'Books teach us how to care about others.'
'Books are filled with human thoughts and feelings. People suffering, people who are sad or happy, laughing with joy. By reading their words and their stories, by experiencing them together, we learn about the hearts and minds of other people besides ourselves. Thanks to books, it's possible to learn not only about the people around us every day, but people living in totally different worlds.'
i feel like this is the kind of book that needs to be reread to be able to truly appreciate it
A boy at the beginning of a story has no way of knowing i feel like this is the kind of book that needs to be reread to be able to truly appreciate it
A boy at the beginning of a story has no way of knowing that the story has begun.
Reading a novel, he supposes, is like playing a game where all the choices have been made for you ahead of time by someone who is much better at this particular game.
Yesterday it felt like it always does, like almost not quite home.
He believes in books, he thinks as he leaves the room. That much he knows for sure.
He does not know why he ever thought he could find a single stranger in a room filled with them.
"But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so."
But this is not where their story ends. This is only where it changes.
"Everyone wants the stars. Everyone wishes to grasp that which exists out of reach. To hold the extraordinary in their hands and keep the remarkable in their pockets."
Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.
It is easier to be in love in a room with closed doors. To have the whole world in one room. In one person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric. But doors cannot stay closed forever.
A beloved book is still beloved even if it was stolen to begin with and imperfect and then lost.
"Strange, isn’t it? To love a book. When the words on the pages become so precious that they feel like part of your own history because they are."
Knights who break hearts and hearts that break knights.
"Symbols are for interpretation, not definition."
"I have felt what you are feeling myriad of times. It does not get any easier. It simply becomes familiar."
"Important things hurt sometimes."
"We are all stardust and stories."
A book is made of paper but a story is a tree.
But the story wanted an ending. Endings are what give stories meaning.
"There is always room for more books."
But this is not where their story ends. Their story is only just beginning. And no story ever truly ends as long as it is told....more
It doesn't matter that she worked in a brothel, that she outwitted the most violent pimp in Pompeii, or that she could move mountains with her rage. TIt doesn't matter that she worked in a brothel, that she outwitted the most violent pimp in Pompeii, or that she could move mountains with her rage. This is not what her lover wants to see, so she hides it all.
Freedom has already exacted a heavy price. She cannot give up everything, or she will have nothing left of herself.
His compassion embarrasses her. She doesn't like being reminded of her own weakness.
"The things people do when they know you don't matter. When they know you are nothing."
"It's useless planning a future you don't own."
"Looks only last so long, lovers are just as bad. But a closet full of coin never made any woman cry."
"Sometimes, it feels like my whole life exists in the moments I'm with you. The rest is just waiting."
"The only lovers that matter are the ones we choose."
"Death is Nature's gift. It's better to know that suffering ends. Once we accept this life is all we have, we can make better use of it."
It would be so much easier if she could hate her friend, rather than feel this endless, bottomless grief.
"It's not enough." "It's what we have."
It takes nothing to end life, everything to give it.
It hurts, how much she cares for this child, this tiny person who was supposed to free her father, but who only trapped her mother.
Amara watches the baby's movements, pressing down on the darkness in her own heart, allowing the blankness to creep in, knowing from long, bitter experience that the only way to survive is to bury the pain, and to keep walking, wherever Fortune leads.
"Perhaps you shouldn't have discarded her so easily. There is always a price to pay for underestimating a woman."...more
Stories have power whether we believe them or not.
"We only have life, nothing else matters beyond that," she says. "Not honour, not anything."
"When yoStories have power whether we believe them or not.
"We only have life, nothing else matters beyond that," she says. "Not honour, not anything."
"When you see a bird flying," she says, "that moment when it chooses to swoop lower or soar higher, when there's nothing but air stopping it, that's what freedom feels like."
Amara looks at the crowd, at the faces watching her. It is a power she has never felt before, this sense that she might shape the expectations of others, hold their desires in check, or release them.
She is not ashamed of her body the way she would have felt ashamed of her clothes.
"You get used to having nothing, don't you? And then suddenly to have something, to feel something, it's..." She trails off. "It's happy-sad?" "Yes, because nothing belongs to you, not even the happiness."
She tells herself it is easier not to want, not to feel. When you cannot make your own choices, what good is wanting anything, or anyone?
"When you cannot be with someone, is it worth the pain, pretending it's any different?"
She lives with the knowledge that he could tear her life apart on a whim, while she could do him no more damage than a pebble dropped in a pond.
"Just because you have been generous enough to allow me a choice, doesn't mean anyone else has."
"Behaving like a shit isn't going to make your life any easier," she says.
a lot of mixed feelings. nice character but average plot.
Beings of power, spirits, given life and will by people's love and fear until they became sa lot of mixed feelings. nice character but average plot.
Beings of power, spirits, given life and will by people's love and fear until they became strong enough to exploit. Humans were foolish creatures, and gods were cruel.
No matter; small men liked to hold big things.
It was a lonely life Elo had made for himself, but it was a good one. He should enjoy it, being alive. He didn't.
"Loss is a strange thing. Some people hold it, some attack."
"No one deserves to be alone in this world."
"Revenge takes a lifetime," she said quietly. "Sometimes... you've got to take what you can get of it."
Did love fix betrayal?
"People make gods, and, for better or worse, gods make people."
"Desperation is always something to fear."
"You are worth more than you think. You are still alive; make something of it. Of life, not death."
"What happened to us does not define us, what we do next is what matters."
"A broken heart can be more powerful than one that's whole."
When morning comes, once again l'm a convenience store worker, a cog in society. This is the only way I can be a normal person.
I'd noticed soon af3.5*
When morning comes, once again l'm a convenience store worker, a cog in society. This is the only way I can be a normal person.
I'd noticed soon after starting the job that whenever I got angry at the same things as everyone else, they all seemed happy.
I'd never experienced sex, and I'd never even had any particular awareness of my own sexuality. I was indifferent to the whole thing and had never really given it any thought. And here was everyone taking it for granted that I must be miserable when I wasn't.
When something was strange, everyone thought they had the right to come stomping in all over your life to figure out why.
When you work in a convenience store, people often look down on you for working there. I find this fascinating, and I like to look them in the face when they do this to me. And as I do so I always think: that's what a human is. And sometimes even those who are doing the same job are biased against it.
The normal world has no room for exceptions and always quietly eliminates foreign objects. Anyone who is lacking is disposed of.
When you do physical labor, you end up being no longer useful when your physical condition deteriorates. However hard I work, however dependable I am, when my body grows old then no doubt I too will be a worn-out part, ready to be replaced, no longer of any use to the convenience store.
She was getting carried away with making up a story for herself. She might just as well have been saying I was "cured." If it had been that simple all along, I thought, I wish she'd given me clear instructions before, then I wouldn't have had to go to such lengths to find out how to be normal.
She's far happier thinking her sister is normal, even if she has a lot of problems, than she is having an abnormal sister for whom everything is fine. For her, normality—however messy—is far more comprehensible.
I would carry my genes carefully to my grave, being sure not to rashly leave any behind, and I would dispose of them properly when I died. I was resolved on this, but at the same time it left me in a bit of a limbo. I understood the end point perfectly, but how was I to spend my time until then?
A convenience store is not merely a place where customers come to buy practical necessities, it has to be somewhere they can enjoy and take pleasure in discovering things they like.
I caught sight of myself reflected in the window of the convenience store I'd just come out of. My hands, my feet—they existed only for the store! For the first time, I could think of the me in the window as a being with meaning....more
From a young age, I couldn't bring myself to contribute to conversations like a normal person, much less socialize or go out with people, and I was neFrom a young age, I couldn't bring myself to contribute to conversations like a normal person, much less socialize or go out with people, and I was never able to acclimate to the particular atmosphere of that little office.
I panicked, fearful that I had disappointed her, or had even offended her. But I had no idea how to convey this hadn't been my intention. I lacked the confidence to speak well.
I understood what she was asking, but I couldn't think of a single thing about me that would be worth sharing.
The image of myself that floated to the surface, tinged with blue against a backdrop of the signs, walls, and windows of the nearby buildings, looked absolutely miserable. Not sad, or tired, but the dictionary definition of a miserable person.
I thought about the books that I had looked through in the bookstore. It occurred to me that they were full of things that people wanted to say to other people, or things people wanted somebody to say to them.
"Memory's funny, isn't it? We remember some things out of nowhere, but so much of what happens, we never think about again."
We never talked about anything that mattered, but Noriko was the first person I could call a friend. That's what she meant to me.
I climbed into bed only to realize that I had no way to occupy myself, which gave rise to an unspeakable loneliness, although I had no idea what it was that made me feel so lonely.
"I wonder why it was so easy for me to tell you," Noriko said. “I guess because you’re not one of the main characters in my life anymore."
I'm all alone, I thought. I'd been on my own for ages, and I was convinced that there was no way I could be any more alone, but now I’d finally realized how alone I truly was. Despite the crowds of people, and all the different places, and a limitless supply of sounds and colors packed together, there was nothing here that I could reach out and touch. Nothing that would call my name. There never had been, and there never would be. And that would never change, no matter where I went in the world.
Then a question suddenly came to me. What had I been doing until now? Had I ever chosen anything? Had I made some kind of choice that led me here? Thinking it over, I stared at the cell phone in my hands. The job that I was doing, the place where I was living, the fact that I was all alone and had no one to talk to. Could these have been the result of some decision that I'd made?
I was so scared of being hurt that I'd done nothing. I was so scared of failing, of being hurt, that I chose nothing. I did nothing.
"I hope you realize that not everyone in the world sees things the way you do." ...more
I was not happy as a child, although from time to time I was content. I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.
They could not truly look dead,I was not happy as a child, although from time to time I was content. I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.
They could not truly look dead, because they did not ever look alive.
I don't remember how the dreams started. But that's the way of dreams, isn't it?
"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."
I wondered, as I wondered so often when I was that age, who I was, and what exactly was looking at the face in the mirror. If the face I was looking at wasn't me, and I knew it wasn't, because I would still be me whatever happened to my face, then what was me?
I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children's stories. They were better than that. They just were.
But Lettie was just a girl, even if she was a big girl, even if she was eleven, even if she had been eleven for a very long time. Ursula Monkton was an adult. It did not matter, at that moment, that she was every monster, every witch, every nightmare made flesh. She was also an adult, and when adults fight children, adults always win.
"I want to remember," I said. "Because it happened to me. And I'm still me."
"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."
"I'm going to tell you something important. 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. The truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world."
Adults should not weep, I knew. They did not have mothers who would comfort them.
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.
"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."
It's hard enough being alive, trying to survive in the world and find your place in it, to do the things you need to do to get by, without wondering if the thing you just did, whatever it was, was worth someone having, if not died, then having given up her life.
I wondered what had happened to her, and then I thought, it doesn't matter that I can't remember the details any longer: death happened to her. Death happens to all of us.
"You don't pass or fail at being a person, dear."...more
She had sacrificed everything she knew for a love as ephemeral and transient as the rainbows that glimmered through the sea spray.
What I did not know She had sacrificed everything she knew for a love as ephemeral and transient as the rainbows that glimmered through the sea spray.
What I did not know was that I had hit upon a truth of womanhood: however blameless a life we led, the passions and the greed of men could bring us to ruin, and there was nothing we could do.
I would be Medusa, if it came to it, I resolved. If the gods held me accountable one day for the sins of someone else, if they came for me to punish a man's actions, I would not hide away like Pasiphae. I would wear that coronet of snakes and the world would shrink from me instead.
I wondered if it was worth it, to defy every law that governed us and lie with a god in a golden bed.
Feeling like the last two people in the world was thrilling; feeling like the only one was terrifying.
I could not fear the destruction of all that was good because everything had been ruined before I could remember.
"They are your people," I reminded him. "Their lives matter to them and so they should matter to you."
"Why mortals bloomed like flowers and crumbled to nothing? Why their absence left a gnawing ache, a hollow void that could never be filled? And how everything they once were, that spark within them, could be extinguished so completely yet the world did not collapse under the weight of so much pain and grief?"
"The gods do not know love because they cannot imagine an end to anything they enjoy. Their passions do not burn brightly as a mortal's passions do, because they can have whatever they desire for the rest of eternity."
I would not let a man who knew the value of nothing make me doubt the value of myself.
"What does love have to do with reason?"
A fallen woman is the sweetest entertainment they know.
I wondered how I had become someone on the outside. I had thought we made a perfect circle, he and I, with children clasped tightly in the protective embrace of our arms.
Because if I had learned anything, I had learned enough to know that a god in pain is dangerous.
They have gone on to lead quiet, unremarkable lives � the greatest gift that they could have been given. ...more
"Betrayal. Translation means doing violence upon the original, means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes. So then where does that "Betrayal. Translation means doing violence upon the original, means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes. So then where does that leave us? How can we conclude, except by acknowledging that an act of translation is then necessarily always an act of betrayal?"
"Words have no meaning unless there is someone present who can understand them."
"How strange," said Ramy. "To love the stuff and the language, but to hate the country."
"Be selfish," he whispered. "Be brave."
But such fantasies did not comfort him as much as the idea that all death meant was nothingness, that everything would just stop: the pain, the anguish, the awful, suffocating grief. If nothing else, surely, death meant peace.
Language was just difference. A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation - a necessary endeavour, however futile, to move between them.
"That's just what translation is, I think. That's all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they're trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands." ...more
“We'll understand some things while we're alive and some after we die. But it doesn't really matter whenthis was so incredibly sad and heartbreaking
“We'll understand some things while we're alive and some after we die. But it doesn't really matter when it happens. What matters is that all the pain and all the sadness have meaning.� ...more
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