When you are in your teenage years you are consciously experiencing everything for the first time, so adolescent stories are all beginnings. There are never any endings.
The books, the authors who matter the most are those who speak to me and speak for me all those things about life I most need to hear as the confession of myself
She was–I keep using the past tense; I ought to say she is–one of those people who, at first sight, look plain, are quiet, unassertive, unmemorable even. But who, when they start to talk and you get to know them.
A joy that hurts with sadness a sadness that is pleasurable a pleasure full of terror a terror that excites an excitement that calms a calmness that frightens.
Become more and more attractive and impressive, and you see that in fact they are beautiful. Not conventionally beautiful, not celebrity beautiful, but beautiful all through.
Like just now. Like now. How is it possible? Can you love someone more and more and at the same time, all the time, love them as much as it’s possible to love someone?
How do I think of you? As someone I want to be with. As someone as young as me, but “older,” if that makes sense. As someone I like to look at, not just because you’re good to look at, but because just looking at you makes me smile and feel happier.
The thing is, when love is real, whether it’s ebbing or flowing, it’s always there, it never goes away. And that’s the only proof you can have that it is real, and not just a crush or an infatuation or a passing fancy
