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I saw myself as unbreakable, as tender as stone. At first I merely belived this, until one day it became the truth. Then I was able to tell myself, without lying, that it didn't affect me, that he didn't affect me, because nothing affected me. I didn't understand how morbidly right I was. How I had hollowed myself out. For all my obsessing over the consequences of that night, I had misunderstood the vital truth: that it not affecting me, that was its effect.

Det er ikke riktig. At det skal være så lett for andre og så vanskelig for meg, jeg skjønner ikke hva det er, om det er en formel, en kode de andre kan, som de har kunnet siden de var små og som jeg ikke har fått med meg.

Tiden har gått forbi meg, helt stile, uten at jeg visste det, listet seg gjennom rommet mens jeg sov.

Å nøle er den mest menneskelige bevegelsen.

Det var så vanskelig å finne de riktige ordene. De riktige ordene fantes ikke. De stod ikke i manus.

Bedrøvelsen er den sinnsstemningen som oppstår når man har vridd raseriet ut av skuffelsen.

Livet er den tiden det tar å dø.

Så vaklevoren er den borgerlige familien at den går i oppløsning bare noen trekker fra gardinene.

Et hvert opprør handler om savn, om noe som mangler, og det er det tomrommet opprøret skal fylle.

Det er bare i fiksjonen man kan være sikker i sin sak, virkeligheten er langt mer lunefull.

Skjønner du at det vonde også kan være vakkert?

[...] det jeg kaller å være optimistisk i gjerningsøyeblikket.

Lykken har de lagt bak seg, den kommer kun som blaff, en forbigående tilstand.

Det er alltid noe å skjule. Det er skader fra privatlivets fred.

She had everything she wanted; all she had to do was convince herself that she wanted very little.

For the arrogance and the futility of remaining alive, the ridiculousness of it, the stench of it, the unreasonableness of it.

Why does the mention of love, the memory of love, the memory of love lost, the promise of love, the end of love, the absence of love, the burning, burning need for love, need to love, result in so much violence?

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?