Bokelskere.no

Imagine four years. Four years, two suicides, one death, one rape, two pregnancies (one abortion), three overdoses, countless drunken antics, pantsings, spilled food, theft, fights, broken limbs, turf wars–every day, a turf war–six months until graduation and no one gets a medal when they get out. But everything you do here counts. High school.

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as 'Nevermore'. But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather the he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before'. Then the bird said, 'Nevermore'.

I was a child and she was a child , In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee

I saw it, in my head, as the mask of the whiskey gentry - a pretentious mix of booze, failed dreams, and a terminal identity crisis; the inevitable result of too much inbreeding in a closed and ignorant culture.

And unlike most of the others in the press box, we didn't give a hoot in hell what was happening on the track. We had come to watch the real beasts perform.

Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

He hated it when you called him a moron. All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

Just because they're crazy about themself, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor. It's sort of funny, in a way.

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would’ve done it, too, if I’d been sure somebody’d cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn’t want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I don't blame them. I really don't. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist, just for the hell of it. I even tried to break all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer, but my hand was already broken and everything by that time, and I couldn't do it. It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know Allie.

I'm pretty sure he yelled "Good luck!" at me. I hope not. I hope to hell not. I'd never yell "Good luck!" at anybody. It sounds terrible, when you think about it.

What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.

Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row.

My only ambition is not to be anything at all; it seems the most sensible thing.

He picked up Camus' Resistance, Rebellion and Death . . . read some pages. Camus talked about anguish and terror and the miserable condition of Man but he talked about it in such a comfortable and flowery way . . . his language . . . that one got the feeling that things neither affected him nor his writing. In other words, things might as well have been fine. Camus wrote like a man who had just finished a large dinner of steak and french fries, salad, and had topped it with a bottle of good French wine. Humanity may have been suffering but not him. A wise man, perhaps, but Henry preferred somebody who screamed when they burned.

Men jeg er ikke akkurat der i tankene nå, og jeg lurer på om der er sånn en blir av å leve lenge aleine, at en bare begynner å snakke høyt midt i ei tankerekke, at forskjellen på å snakke og ikke snakke sakte viskes ut, at den evige, indre samtalen vi fører med oss sjøl glir over i den vi fører med de få mennesker vi fortsatt omgås, og når en lever aleine i altfor lang tid, blir linja som skiller den ene fra den andre utydelig, og du merker det ikke når du krysser den linja.

Det er ikke jeg som er gal – det er verden

Det finnes faktisk lykkelige mennesker her i verden

God instructs the heart, not by ideas, but by pains and contradictions.