We have to make mistakes, its how we learn compassion for others

..and I thought how liking a boy was just the same as believing you wanted to know a secret - everything was better when you were denied and could feel tormented by curiousity or loneliness. But the moment of something happening was treacherous. It was just so tiring to have to worry about whether your face was peeling, or to have to laugh at stories that weren’t funny.

I feel like as I've gotten older I've unfortunately come to the decision that a lot of people who seem normal and boring maybe are normal and boring.

But I never thought of who he wasn't, I never had to explain or defend him to myself, I didn't even care what we talked about.

I wanted to hold happiness in reserve, like a bottle of champagne. I postponed it because I was afraid, because I overvalued it, and then I didn't want to use it up, because what do you wish for then?

Ironically, writing a novel is not a way to sort out your confusion.

I feel like if you read something, and it makes you so curious about a topic that you then go read something else, that's exciting.