Jeg er 15 år i huden, skjelettet, øynene, beina og armene, men ikke i hjertet. Hjertet er vel sånn ca syv og et halvt. Der er vi nok like. Peter Pan og jeg.

Skjønner du hvor mye kjærlighet det er i dyrt snowboardutstyr?
Skjønner du det?
Å eie snowboardutstyr til 10 700 kroner og ake med plastikkpose rundt ræva i stedet.

"Hvordan... hvordan avslørte du meg, jeg..." (...)
"Jeg lånte datamaskinen din et øyeblikk mens du dusjet. Søkehistorikken din viste at det du hadde googlet aller mest den siste uken var disse tre tingene: 1) Hvordan myrde mannen din og få det til å se ut som om det var noen andre som har gjort det eller aller helst bare som om han bader, 2) Hvordan rense svømmebasseng (...)"

[...] jeg tror ikke det handler om preferanser, det handler om at menn nærmest underbevisst betrakter bøker som er skrevet av damer, som litteratur for damer, mens bøker skrevet av menn, er litteratur, punktum. Og historier skrevet av menn med menn i hovedrollen nyter allmenn interesse, mens historier av kvinner om kvinner kun er interessant for andre kvinner, for de handler bare om kvinnetemaer som følelser og barn og kan ikke tenkes å ha overordnede tematikker - slik mannlige forfattere som skriver om pappaen sin, egentlig skriver om noe mer allmenn-gyldig, sa mamma [...].

But what she didn't realize about Blue and her boys was that they were all in love with one another. She was no less obsessed with them than they were with her, or one another (...).

If you looked inside me, I bet you’d find two different hearts beating for two different people, like the sun and moon up at the same time, a terrible eclipse I’m the only witness to.

(...) he’s mastered the art of lying so well he made me believe he doesn’t lie, when actually, the best liars are the ones who fool you by claiming they never lie at all.

But I like this idea that Thomas grew up never needing anyone to teach him how to make a fist, and I can’t help but feel like we’re all doing something wrong for always turning to ours.

History is told by those who win.

Det er rart, sa eg.
Kva då? spurte Kjersti.
Kor glad og ulykkeleg ein kan vere på same tid, svara eg.

"Good girl."
She bristled at the words and the caressing tone in which he spoke them. Am I? she wondered as she sank to her knees to raise the dead.

Wouldn't we all look guilty, if someone searched hard enough?

Perhaps bravery is simply the face humanity wraps around its collective madness.

He's still looking in my eyes. Staring me down like he did that dragon, chin tilted and locked. "I'm not the Chosen One," he says.
I meet his gaze and sneer. My arm is a steel band around his waist. "I choose you," I say. "Simon Snow, I choose you.”

Sharing a room with the person you want most is like sharing a room with an open fire.

He's constantly drawing you in. And you're constantly stepping too close. And you know it's not good--that there is no good--that there's absolutely nothing that can ever come of it.

But you do it anyway.
And then...
Well. Then you burn.

It is a condition of monsters that they do not perceive themselves as such. The dragon, you know, hunkered in the village devouring maidens, heard the townsfolk cry 'Monster!' and looked behind him.

You can sleep now, you said. You can sleep now. You said that.
I had a dream where you said that. Thanks for saying that.
You weren't supposed to.

I don't really blame you for being dead but you can't have your sweater back.

The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater
because he is trying to kill you,
and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,
and you are ready to die in this swimming pool
because you wanted to touch his hands and his lips and this means
your life is over anyway

You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.