I'd been broken beyond repair.

I couldn’t get the words exactly right; I only remembered wishing that Jacob were my brother so that we could love each other without any confusion or pain.

I said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be.

Some of the memories were not clear - -dim human memories, seen through weak eyes and heard through weak ears: the first time I'd seen his face... the way it felt when he'd held me in the meadow... the sound of his voice through the darkness of my faltering consciousness when he'd save me from James... his face as he waited under a canopy of flowers to marry me... every precious moment on the island... his cold hands touching our baby through my skin.

What's funny about that is when I was writing Twilight just for myself and not thinking of it as a book, I was not thinking about publishing, and yet at the same time I was casting it in my head. Because when I read books, I see them very visually.

He squeezes my hand, and my heart punches against my ribs. It's just like pain, this pleasure.

I felt like - like I don't know what. Like this wasn't real. Like I was in some Goth version of a bad sitcom. Instead of being the A/V dweeb about to ask the head cheerleader to the prom, I was the finished-second-place werewolf about to ask the vampire's wife to shack up and procreate. Nice. - Jacob