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Nineteenth-century preacher Henry Ward Beecher's last words were "Now comes the mystery." The poet Dylan Thomas, who liked a good drink at least as much as Alaska, said, "I've had eighteen straight whiskeys. I do believe that's a record," before dying. Alaska's favorite was playwright Eugene O'Neill: "Born in a hotel room, and—God damn it—died in a hotel room." Even car-accident victims sometimes have time for last words. Princess Diana said, "Oh God. What's happened?" Movie star James Dean said, "They've got to see us," just before slamming his Porsche into another car. I know so many last words. But I will never know hers.
Vi hadde lært at Buddha sa at lidelse kom av ønsker, og at opphør av ønsker betydde opphør av lidelse. Når man sluttet å ønske at ting ikke skulle falla fra hverandre, ville man slutte å lide når de gjorde det.
When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.
At some point, you just pull off the Band-Aid, and it hurts, but then it's over and you're relieved.
What you must understand about me is that I’m a deeply unhappy person.
I may die young, but at least I'll die smart.
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.
Boksamlingen hennes fylte bokhyllene og rant over i hoftehøyde stabler overalt, ustøtt lent inntil veggen. Jeg tenkte at hvis bare en av dem rørte seg, kunne dominoeffekten komme til å drukne oss i en kvelende litteraturflom.
Jeg ble alltid litt sjokkert når jeg skjønte at jeg ikke var den eneste i verden som tenkte og følte så merkelige og forferdelige ting.
Hun gjorde meg annerledes.