Bokelskere.no

The beginning and the end, the anticipation and despair, that's where the story lies, but the state of being in love, and in particular of being young and in love, is like listening to someone describe their parachute jump or their bizarre dream, the blurred photograph of a life-changing preformance, taken from too far away.

I could only hate him like that because I'd once loved him to the same degree.

I was sixteen years old; people wrote anthems about this time of life, and wasn't I entitled to joy and fun and irresponsibility, rather than fear and fury and boredom?

I'd made a religion of the past, resorting to it like alcohol.

The notion that these had been the best years of our lives suddenly seemed both plausible and tragic and I wished that school had always been like this, our arms around each other, filled with a kind of hooligan love

We were plastic, mutable and there was still time to experiment and alter our handwriting, our politics, the way we laughed or walked or sat in a chair, before we hardened and set.