“My darling, he is just a boy. How can he possibly begin to appreciate the constellations you leave in your wake, or the stardust in your bones, when he has yet to realize just what it means to be in love with a girl like you?”

You smell of death. Everything about is an endless goodbye.

We have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins, carbon in our souls and nitrogen in our brains. 93 percent stardust, with souls made of flames, we are all just stars that have people names.

To heal you must forgive your heart, your skin, your body, all of their mistakes.

What I have spent in mourning is the price I have paid for my healing.

Even without him, you can bring down monsters. Believe me. You can still bring down monsters.

My Fairy Godmother is my heart sustaining me.

When I held her, I held her gently so that she always knew she could fly away and I would never harm her or clip her wings.

She’s a woman in love and is loved in return. That is a powerful thing.

The world is not allowed to make a meal of you, girl. It is there for your consuming.

You are permitted to be cruel sometimes, and you are allowed to fall apart, and feel every emotion they tell you not to feel.

I am more powerful than I am damaged and I will rise from any abyss you drown me in.

And she needs no prince or knight to save her, because her might is enough to tame dragons.

Survival is ugly. Healing is messy. Self-love is complicated.

So when they ask you what you weigh, you don’t need to look down at any scale. Instead, simply tell them the truth; tell them how you weigh whole universes and storms and scars and stories, too.

Before we had mouths or language or hope, we still had love. I know it’s not much. But my god, it’s beautiful and on so many days it is enough.

If a woman does not fit the shape of what you think a woman should, if a woman is not obedient, does not see things the way you do, if a woman is too independent to need anything more than herself, does she automatically become a threat filled with such terror to you?

Mankind will not die for lack of information; it may perish for lack of appreciation.

People of our time are losing the power of celebration. Instead of celebrating we seek to be amused or entertained.

As civilization advances, the sense of wonder declines. Such decline is an alarming symptom of our state of mind.

An appreciation of prose is learned, not instinctive. It is an acquired taste, like Scotch whisky.

Celebration is an active state, an act of expressing reverence or appreciation. To be entertained is a passive state–it is to receive pleasure afforded by an amusing act or a spectacle.

There are two primary ways in which mans relates himself to the world that surround him: manipulation and appreciation .

Acceptance is appreciation, and the high value of appreciation is such that to appreciate appreciation seems to be the fundamental prerequisite for survival.

Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.