The History of Love - Pg 57

And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.

The History of Love - Pg 57

In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me. 

The History of Love - Pg 49

On the twelfth day I passed Sharon Newman and her friends in the hall. "WHAT'S UP WITH THAT DISGUSTING SWEATER?" she said. Go eat some hemlock, I thought, and decided to wear Dad's sweater for the rest of my life. I made it almost to the end of the school year. It was alpaca wool, and by the middle of May it was unbearable. My mother though it was belated grieving. But I wasn't trying to set any records. I just liked the way it felt. 

The History of Love - Pg 48

And then I told him that I thought my mother actually liked him and even though a normal person would probably be very happy to talk to him and even go out again, I'd known my mother for eleven and a half years and she'd never done anything normal. 

The History of Love - Pg 45

Alberto Giacometti said that sometimes just to paint a head you have to give up the whole figure. To paint a leaf, you have to sacrifice the whole landscape. It might seem like you're limiting yourself at first, but after a while you realize that having a quarter-of-an-inch of something you have a better chance of holding on to a certain feeling of the universe than if you pretended to be doing the whole sky. 

My mother did not choose a leaf or a head. She chose my father, and to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world.  

The History of Love - Pg 9

At times i believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat would be empty. 

The History of Love - Pg 9

At times i believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat would be empty. 

The History of Love - Pg 7

Maybe this is how I'll go, in a fit of laughter, what could be better, laughing and crying, laughing and singing, laughing so as to forget that I am alone ,that it is the end of my life. 

The History of Love - Pg 4

Put even a fool in front of the window and you'll get a Spinoza. 

The History of Love - Pg 4

All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen. 

NEVER LET ME GO - KAZUO ISHIGURO

Never Let Me Go - Pg 79

Chances are, at the time, I noticed all these things without knowing what on earth to make of them. And if these incidents now seem full of significance and all of a piece, it's probably because I'm looking at them in the light of what came later.

Never Let Me Go - Pg 77

But those last years feel different. They weren't unhappy exactly--I've got plenty of memories I treasure from them--but they were more serious, and in some ways darker. Maybe I've exaggerated it in my mind, but I've got an impression of things changing rapidly around then, like day moving into night.

Never Let Me Go - Pg 36

The first time you glimpse yourself through the eyes of a person like that, it's a cold moment. It's like walking past a mirror you've walked past every day of your life, and suddenly it shows you something else, something troubling and strange. 

Never Let Me Go - Pg 36

So you're waiting, even if you don't quite know it, waiting for the moment when you realise that you really are different to them; that there are people out there, like Madame, who don't hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you--of how you were brought into this world and why--and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs.