“I'm the ugly truth, and he's a pretty lie, and we're always, always circling each other.”

“That’s another type of loneliness—when your deepest truths are locked away and no one but you can hear them.”

“She loved sinking into her bed on evenings like this, but apparently she shouldn't, because it worried her aunts, who thought she ought to be out dancing. It worried her a little bit, too, because what if they were right, and because sometimes a great loneliness welled up in her and threatened all the dams she built to hold it back. You couldn't cure loneliness by wallowing in it, up above the world, on an island removed from everything. She knew that. But she had such a hard time with all the cures. They seemed rough and brusque and brutal, as if they abused her skin with a pot scrubber . . . forcing herself into a mass of people, a stranger among strangers. . . . But it was much more tempting to curl up with a book under her thick white comforter. Still, sometimes after she curled up, she regretted her lack of courage and felt bleakly lonely. It was important to have a really good book.”

“They can’t find any peace, no matter what they do or where they are, until they are together with the other half, so they finally can feel Home.”

“This isn’t the end for us. I promise. This is just the in-between. I’ll find you in the after.”

“To be angry once in a while is really good fun, because it makes others so miserable. But to be angry morning, noon and night, as I am, grows monotonous and prevents my gaining any other pleasure in life.”

“Never live in fear or regret, live in lessons learned that make you better and keep going forward”

“Maybe their parents didn’t love them enough and it made them stabby?”