Sarah Dessen Quotes

I love you still, but with your death I succumbed to a kind of infatuation. I convinced myself that what you and I had, so very briefly, was of far vaster and deeper import than it truly was. Of all the weapons we chose to turn upon ourselves, guilt is the sharpest, Silverfox. It can carve one's own past into unrecognizable shapes, false memories leading to beliefs that sow all kinds of obsessions.

O, my past years in Rangoon are spectres to haunt my soul; and they seem to laugh at me as they shake the chains they have riveted on me.

I never slept when I lost. I'd see the sun come up without ever having closed my eyes. I'd see those base hits over and over and they would drive me crazy.

Every day I tell myself that reading newspapers is a waste of time, but then... I cannot do without them. They are like a drug.

The saddest thing is that when I sat down to rehearse for the Pixies, I couldn't believe that I had given up something that I loved. Now I hold the drum at night and I want to go to bed with it.

Despite the successes, you remember the failures - rather lovingly.

But then, my entire life is bullshit. The best things in it have vanished, ghosts. Ghosts I'll admit I created.

I've loved him for a decade. And I had him for one day before I made a complete and utter mess of things. Or he did. I'm still not sure about that.

For grief is felt not so much for the want of what we have never known, as for the loss of that to which we have been long accustomed.

The real affliction of old age is remorse.

There is some consensus: There's obsession, there's never satiety, and there's always remorse. For me, the big thing is that you're always breaking a promise - for example, you promise yourself you're just going to have coffee with a man, then before you know it, you're in bed together.

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

but that mimosa grove - the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since." "this then is my story. i have reread it. it has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. at this or that twist of it i feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than i care to probe.

I'm a refugee from the past, and like other refugees I go over the customs and habits of being I've left or been forced to leave behind me, and it all seems just as quaint, from here, and I am just as obsessive about it.

I regret. I apologize. I blame myself. I continue as before.

There was something so heavy about the burden of history, of the past. I wasn't sure I had it in me to keep looking back.

This is what I know about myself. She was all I wanted. And I took her away.

The biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.

You loved me as hard as you knew how. I'd give anything to go back and love you better.

I thought you were gone forever, I thought you’d walked away from everything, because I failed, because I destroyed the only thing that ever mattered to me. I waited for you to come, but you didn’t.

All my lies are only wishes / I know I would die if I could come back new.

Was there any human urge more pitiful-or more intense- than wanting another chance at something?

I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?