Ellen Hopkins Quotes

I wanted to end my life so bad and was in my car ready to go down that ramp into the water, and I did go part way, but I stopped. I went again and stopped. I then got out of the car and stood by the car a nervous wreck.

The great thing about suicide is that it's not one of those things you have to do now or you lose your chance. I mean, you can always do it later.

It's funny how you never know who you're going to share your life with.

It bothered me that he was right. Without Sir Stuart's intervention, I'd have been dead again already. That's right--you heard me: dead again already. I mean, come on. How screwed up is your life (after- or otherwise) when you find yourself needing phrases like that?

I don't think I was ever...trying to kill myself but I knew that if I'd ever gone too far...I wouldn't care.

...I knew he would be dead, because Dally Winston wanted to be dead and he always got what he wanted.

I am a firm believer in serendipity- all the random pieces coming together in one wonderful moment, when suddenly you see what their purpose was all along.

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

I could never kill myself. I approve of suicide if you have horrible health. Otherwise it's the ultimate hissy fit.

A difference in self loathing? Please. The only difference between a gun and a rope is the time it takes to tie the knot.

If you like not hanging, drown yourself; Take some course for your reputation.

Have you made any plans? Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself. All those things together? It couldn't possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help.

My resolve to die was not the whim of an hour. It was the ripe, sound fruit that had slowly grown to full size, lightly rocked by the winds of fate whose next breath would bring it to the ground.

If you intend to die, you can do anything.

All of a sudden I became aware of a little star in one of those patches and I began looking at it intently. That was because the little star gave me an idea: I made up my mind to kill myself that night. I had made up my mind to kill myself already two months before and, poor as I am, I bought myself an excellent revolver and loaded it the same day. But two months had elapsed and it was still lying in the drawer. I was so utterly indifferent to everything that I was anxious to wait for the moment when I would not be so indifferent and then kill myself. Why -- I don't know.

Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choosing.

Plainly it isn't an exact science, despite it being a complex interaction of micro-decisions and corresponding thought; perhaps it doesn't always work and we pass by some potential soulmates like the proverbial ships in the night, never quite connecting. Then again, perhaps the system is tenacious and continues to run like a computer program on infinite loop, so that if at first you don't meet, you are drawn back together for another try.

If you tell me you are going to kill yourself, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it.

American youth is looking for a reason to die.

There are, I dare say, many lovers who would never have been drawn to each other had they met for the first time, as, say, they met the second time.

Y'all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.

Did I help you to a fate you didn't want?

Where does a story truly begin? In life, there are seldom clear-cut beginnings, those moments when we can, in looking back, say that everything started. Yet there are moments when fate intersects with our daily lives, setting in motion a sequence of events whose outcome we could never have foreseen.

I was crying and laughing, snuffing tears and blood, bumping at him with my bound hands, trying awkwardly to thrust them at him so that he could cut the rope. He quit grappling, and clutched me so hard against him that I yelped in pain as my face was pressed against his plaid. He was saying something else, urgently, but I couldn’t manage to translate it. Energy pulsed through him, hot and violent, like the current in a live wire, and I vaguely realized that he was still almost berserk; he had no English.