We Were Liars Deluxe Edition Quotes
He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever.
Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you.
Always do what you're afraid to do. ... I will prove myself strong when they think I am sick. I will prove myself brave when they think I am weak.
Better than chocolate, being with you last night. Silly me, I thought that nothing was better than chocolate.
Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound, then from my eyes, my ears, my mouth. It tasted like salt and failure. The bright red shame of being unloved soaked the grass in front of our house, the bricks of the path, the steps of the porch. My heart spasmed among the peonies like a trout.
One day, she ventured to the palace library and was delighted to find what good company books could be.
They know that tragedy is not glamorous. They know it doesn't play out in life as it does on a stage or between the pages of a book. It is neither a punishment meted out nor a lesson conferred. Its horrors are not attributable to one single person. Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.
But the thing that makes me really messed up is the contradiction: when I'm not hating myself, I feel righteous and victmized. Like the world is so unfair.
Here is something I love about Gat: he is so enthusiastic, so relentlessly interested in the world, that he has trouble imagining the possibility that other people will be bored by what he’s saying. Even when they tell him outright. But also, he doesn’t like to let us off easy. He wants to make us think—even when we don’t feel like thinking.
One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he was my particular person.
Be a little kinder than you have to. Never eat anything bigger than your ass Do not accept an evil you can change Always do what your afraid to do.
Can I hold your hand?" he asked. I put mine in his. "The universe is seeming really huge right now," he told me. "I need something to hold on to." "I'm here.
Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom? It is hard for her to tell the difference.
We are Sinclairs. Beautiful. Privileged. Damaged. Liar. We live, least in the summertime, on a private island off the coast of Massachusetts. Perhaps that is all you need to know.
I’d a million times rather live and risk and have it all end badly than stay in the box I’ve been in for the past two years.
It is not mysterious to be home on a Saturday night, reading a novel in a pile of smelly golden retrievers.
Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you. Also, here is a green toothbrush tied in a ribbon. It expresses my feelings inadequately.
I see it for what is is, now. It is a house built on ashes. Ashes of the life Granddad shared with Gran, ashes of the maple from which the tire swing flew, ashes of the old Victorian house with the porch and the hammock. The new house is built on the grave of all the trophies and symbols of the family: the New Yorker cartoons, the taxidermy, the embroidered pillows, the family portraits.
He had that hungry mind, constantly turning things over, looking not for answers but for understanding.
I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special and soft your fingertips can’t leave it alone.
LIFE FEELS BEAUTIFUL that day. The four of us Liars, we have always been. We always will be. No matter what happens as we go to college, grow old, build lives for ourselves; no matter if Gat and I are together or not. No matter where we go, we will always be able to line up on the roof of Cuddledown and gaze at the sea. This island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.
I own a well-used library card and not much else, though it is true I live in a grand house full of expensive, useless objects.
I lie there and wait, and remind myself over and over that it doesn’t last forever. That there will be another day and after that, yet another day. One of those days, I’ll get up and eat breakfast and feel okay.
In America, here is how we operate: We work for what we want, and we get ahead. We never take no for answer, and we deserve the rewards of our perseverance.
It all seems so sad, so unbearably sad for a second, to think of the lovely old maple with the swing. We never told the tree how much we loved it. We never gave it a name, never did anything for it.
We were warm and shivering, and young and ancient, and alive. I was thinking, it's true. We already love each other. We already do.
My boyfriend is named Percocet," I say. "We're very close. I even went to Europe with him last summer.
You can't believe because she tells you to," I said "No. The question is: how to be a good person if I don't believe anymore.
Our kiss was electric and soft, and tentative and certain, terrifying and exactly right. I felt the love rush from me to Gat and from Gat to me. We were warm and shivering, and young and ancient, and alive. I was thinking, It's true. We already love each other. We already do.
Every time Gat said these things, so casual and truthful, so oblivious - my veins opened. My wrists split. I bled down my palms. I went light-headed. I'd stagger from the table or collapse in quite shameful agony, hoping no-one in the family would notice ... Gat almost always saw, though. When blood dripped on my bare feet or poured over the book I was reading, he was kind. He wrapped my wrists in a soft white gauze and asked me questions about what had happened... as if talking about something could make it better. As if wounds needed attention.
Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you. Also, here is a green toothbrush tied in a ribbon. It expresses my feelings inadequately.. Better than chocolate, being with you last night. Silly me, I thought nothing was better than chocolate. In a profound symbolic gesture,I am giving you this bar of Vosges I got when we all went to Edgartown. You can eat it, or just sit next to it and feel superior.
am not talking about fate. I don’t believe in destiny or soul mates or the supernatural. I just mean we understood each other. All the way.
We all know that Beauty grows to love the Beast. She grows to love him, despite what her family might think ⎼ for his charm and education, his knowledge of art and his sensitive heart.
We read all twenty-eight emails. When she is finished, Mirren kisses me on the cheek. "I can't even say sorry," she tells me. "There is not even a Scrabble word for how bad I feel.
The Sinclairs are athletic, tall, and handsome. We are old-money Democrats. Our smiles are wide, our chins square, and our tennis serves aggressive.
Now at the breakfast table, watching him eat my toast, "Don't take no for an answer" seemed like the attitude of a privileged guy who didn't care who got hurt, so long as his wife had the cute statues she wanted to display in her summer house.