No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.
If you would be unloved and forgotten, be reasonable.
We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under . . . The fourth category, the rarest, is the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers.
Men seek fame and high places only to learn that they were happier in obscurity
And none will hear the postman’s knock Without a quickening of the heart. For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
There are women who are wishing that they were that piece of tape right now.
I have such a big family, sometimes, I was wondering, when is it going to be my turn? There's always a brother who's older, younger, bigger, stronger, faster, I was like, 'hey, give me a chance guys.'
I didn't want to feel such love for someone else. I still wanted to be the object of that tidal wave.
Men are kids at heart. They want to be nourished and pet like a dog.
I ne'er could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip But where my own did hope to sip.
That's basically what the drive is: "I want to be famous, I want to be noticed, and I want to be approved of." That's basically what you're after. "Give me attention, give me applause, give me an audience. A. A. A. Straight As." That's all you're looking for.
Music so wishes to be heard that it sometimes calls on unlikely characters to give it voice.
In all my life I'd never been approached this way, the car pulling up, the Where you going? It was something I wish had happened hundreds of times. I was a looker - someone who looked over at every car at every traffic light, hoping something would happen, and almost never finding anyone looking back - always everyone looking forwards, and every time I felt stupid. Why should people look at you? Why should they care?
He thought how sad it was to be an Animal who had never had a bunch of violets picked for him.
What she mostly wanted, he learned, was the same thing many people want--someone to notice she was there.
Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.
Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.
