You alone will have the stars as no one else has them…In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night…You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.

He has a clear-eyed, epicene handsomeness -- cruel, sensuous mouth; cheekbones to cut your heart on -- the sort of excessive beauty that is best appreciated in repose on a 50-foot screen.

because I'd always been stronger than that, all the weight of the world on my back- and it's just love, selfish love.

Come on and lay down your arms. our best defense is taking our chances out here on the run. fear is an anchor, time is a stranger, love isn't borrowed, we aren't promised tomorrow.

Blow a kiss at the methane skies, see the rust through your playground eyes- we're all in love tonight.

The clown in the girl is bumptious as can be: bouncing about in the peaked cap and oversized coat of a boy she hasn't learned to love yet, pacing in lockstep behind a fellow-lodger for the sheer love of badgering him, blowing out her cheeks like a fussed walrus when crossed.

Daylight... in my mind, the night faded. it was daytime and the neighbourhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas. it was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk towards a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him. It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged down the sidewalk dragging a fishing-pole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention. It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs Dubose's. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day's woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. Summer, and he watched his children's heart break. Autumn again, and Boo's children needed him.

You know, to me, the most beautiful things in all the universe, are the most mysterious.

Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.

I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.

his heart felt dangerously full, for the first time in years. That dried-up battered organ, suddenly flush with love. It could kill him.

It’s easy to have a secret, sometimes it’s even fun, until reality starts to creep into it and then the secret seeps into your real life. that’s when people get hurt, that’s when you have to make choices. It’s not even that one choice is right while the other is wrong but that eventually you have to find a way to sleep at night.

do you have a pen? take a memo and write this down: once, I was loved, supremely with every fiber of someone's being. they just never knew how to tell me.

It's because you and them were made of the same pieces. and afterwards, when you put yourself back together, some piece of them remained.

a face without freckles is like a sky without stars, why waste a moment not loving who you are? It's those little imperfections that make you beautiful.

sometimes I feel like there’s a hole inside of me, an emptiness that at times seems to burn. I think if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could probably hear the ocean. the moon tonight, there’s a circle around it. sign of trouble not far behind. I have this dream of being whole, of not going to sleep each night, wanting. but still sometimes, when the wind is warm or the crickets sing… I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen.

I missed him. love, I realized, was something your spine memorized. there was nothing you could do about that.

you’re like a fire fly, a spark, a glow, a match in the darkness. and I will go wherever the light takes me.

someone woke up today. someone woke up today and kissed someone they love on the forehead. someone woke up today and kissed someone they love on the forehead, before they left. someone woke up today and kissed someone they love on the forehead, before they left, they said "I love you. have a good day. I'll speak to you later." someone woke up today and kissed someone they love on the forehead, before they left, they said "I love you. have a good day. I'll speak to you later. I love you. I love you." and they replied "I love you." and they kissed them goodbye. for the very last time. someone woke up today. but they won't wake up tomorrow.

maybe you had to leave in order to really miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was.

there are two kinds of love…in the safe kind you look for someone who’s exactly like you. It’s what most people settle for. but then there’s the other kind of love. everyone’s born with a ragged edge, and some people crave that piece that’s a perfect fit. you’ll search for it forever, if you have to. and if you’re lucky enough to find it, it looks so right, you start to tear at your own seams, thinking, maybe I could look just as perfect. but then, of course, when you try to get close to their other half, you don’t fit anymore. that kind of love…you come out of it a different person than you were when you started.

life is just the novel you write on your coffee break. and your novel is just a collection of lies you'd like to remember. and all that you remember, is the distance from here, to then.

music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

the sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear are still inside my head. the kindest words I’ll ever know are waiting to be said. the most entrancing sight of all is yet for me to see. and the dearest love in all the world is waiting somewhere for me

it's all just magic when I think about you. okay, I’ll admit it, I’m an addict, but not in the usual sense of the word. you see, I’m addicted to you. when I’m around you I’m on an incredible high, and when I’m not with you, the withdrawal is unbearable.

people aren’t coloring books . you can’t make them just how you want them.

everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. the best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.

we loved with a love that was more than love.

I believe in everything until it’s disproved. so I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. it all exists, even if it’s in your mind. who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?