Sometimes the way you think about someone isn't the way they actually are.

I think that it's a universal urge to have our pain not be felt alone and to have our joys not be felt alone.

You know, like when you look in the mirror and the thing you see is not the thing as it really is.

People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm.

The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, there was no longer anyone to remember with.

I will play out the string. I will not betray your trust. I will find you.

The Colonel explained to me that 1. this was Alaska's room, and that 2. she had a single room because the girl who was supposed to be her roommate got kicked out at the end of last year, and that 3. Alaska had cigarettes, although the Colonel neglected to ask whether 4. I smoked, which 5. I didn't.