“I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.”

I think novelists, when they write their books, end up having occasionally serving a purpose and playing roles that they never really fully either intended or even understood.

Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.

You can not stop you from being who you are.

Whether you do something or decide to do nothing, either way, you are making a moral choice. And I hope people make the right one.

Life just doesn’t care about our aspirations, or sadness. It’s often random, and it’s often stupid and it’s often completely unexpected, and the closures and the epiphanies and revelations we end up receiving from life, begrudgingly, rarely turn out to be the ones we thought.

Yet love can move people to act in unexpected ways and move them to overcome the most daunting obstacles with startling heroism.

Her impulse, her need, to be the corrector of injustices, warden of the downtrodden flock.

It’s tremendous what can happen when suddenly you make an emotional connection.

And suddenly, just like that, hope became knowledge. I was going to win. It was just a matter of when.

She was the trembler of knees, the spiller of teacups.

There is only one sin. and that is theft. When you tell a lie, you steal someones right to the truth.

But it is important to know this, to know your roots. To know where you started as a person. If not, your own life seems unreal to you. Like a puzzle. Vous comprenez? Like you have missed the beginning of a story and now you are in the middle of it, trying to understand.

A boy who won’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can’t stand up to anything.

Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.

True redemption is when guilt leads to good.

The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.

With work and life, your true depth can become an alien thing to you. Your gut feelings, your instincts become buried.

After traveling through fourteen foreign countries and appearing before all the royalty and nobility I have only one wish today. That is that when my eyes are closed in death that they will bury me back in that quiet little farm land where I was born.

Sometimes the world buries me but flowers can grow only from beneath.

It’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.

I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.

I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.

Don’t get buried in the thick of thin things.

Time doesn’t heal all the wounds: it buries them.