How Could You Book Quotes

The love song I wrote that day... I got embarrassed and never sang it for her.

Oh yeah... I'll sing it to her when I go home.

I'll go home.

I'll hurry home. ~ Inio Asano

What I do know, is that I refused to compromise with the system and I was obsessed with preventing my work from being manipulated for their propaganda. Even stories about the Holocaust could have been promoted as anti-fascist stories, which they were in a way, but I didn't want them to be taken only as such. I remember I had a reading in Berlin in the '80s and a man in the audience, asked me: 'Sir, I read your book, I read the stories, you didn't say who the oppressors were nor who are the people who are suffering.' And I said, 'No, I didn't.' It was important to me that a Vietnamese reader reading a story about a young boy who is in a camp, can recognize himself, without me saying: the boy is a Jew, the oppressor is a Romanian, or a Nazi, and so on. I wanted to have a more universal approach. ~ Norman Manea

Why are you crying?'
'How can I possibly look good to you? I'm pregnant! I'm really, really pregnant!'
'Of course you are. Why are you crying?'
'Because I'm going to Hawai'i!'
'Yes, you're going to Hawai'i. Come on now, pull yourself together.'
I kept crying.
Darren looked frantic. He stepped back and fumbled for his roguish smirk. 'So, is this a hormone thing?'
'No, it's not a hormone thing! I'm old, Darren! I'm old and pregnant, and I'm going to Hawai'i. Can you understand how that makes me feel?'
He could not.
How could I possibly expect my husband to understand all the bizarre things that happen to a woman in spirit and flesh when a friendly alien takes over her body? He still couldn't figure out why Laurie and I wanted to fly all the way to Hawai'i just to spend a week lounging around the pool, comparing underarm flab, when we could stay home and have the same conversation over the phone for a lot less money. ~ Robin Jones Gunn

To Be the Famous..."

To be the famous isn't attractive,
Not this could ever elevate,
You needn't to make your archive active,
You needn't your scripts to be all saved.

Self-offering's aimed by creation,
But ballyhoo or cheap success,
It is a shame, if worthless persons
Are talks of towns' populace.

But you've to live without phony,
To live such life that, after all,
To gain love of the space symphony,
And answer to the future's call,

And oft to leave gaps in your traces
In fate, but in the papers, crooked,
To mark the chapters and main places
On margins of your being's book,

To fully sink in the unknown,
And hide in it your own steps
Like hide itself, if mist is grown,
The whole landscape of the place.

The others, by the living traces,
Will pass your way through, bit by bit,
But wins and losses of your battles
You have not to discern on it.

You've never – not by fate or folly –
To lose an atom of your face,
But – be alive, alive and only,
Alive and only, till your last. ~ Boris Pasternak

When we were in New York, you cried for two days and passed out. You said a word in your sleep, over and over. Akinli." Elizabeth stared down at the drawing.
"At first I thought it was gibberish. And then I thought it was the name of a town or a building. . . . I didn't figure out it belonged to a person until you made that." Elizabeth pointed down to the paper, worn from being folded and unfolded who knew how many times.
"When Elizabeth came to me, I had to tell her the truth, and we decided to find him. You gave us the name of the town. We went there looking for someone answering to that name, fitting this image." Miaka smiled ruefully. "Very small town. It wasn't hard."
Tears pooled in my eyes. "You've really seen him?"
They both nodded. I thought about all those trips they had taken, making up ridiculous stories so they could get to him without me knowing.
"How is he?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity. "Is he okay? Has he gone back to school? Is he still with Ben and Julie? Is he happy? Could you tell? Is he happy?"
The questions tumbled out without me being able to hold them in. I was desperate to know. I felt a single word would put my soul at ease.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. "That's the thing, Kahlen. We're afraid he's dying. ~ Kiera Cass

Don't you think our society is designed to kill in that way? Of course, you've surely heard about those tiny fish in the rivers of Brazil which attack the swimmer by the thousands, eat him up in a few moments in quick little mouthfuls and leave only a perfectly clean skeleton behind? So, that's the way they're constituted. 'Do you want a clean life, like everyone else?' Of course the answer is yes. How could you not? 'Fine. We'll clean you up. Here's a job, here's a family, here's some organized leisure.' And the little teeth bite into the flesh, right down to the bone. But i'm being unfair. I shouldn't have said, 'the way they're constituted', because after all, it's our way, too: it's a case of who strips whom. ~ Albert Camus

I have checked our teleportation technology," Tridax said. "There was no sign of sabotage. You are a liar."
"Well, no one ever said Makuta were observant," said Vezon, "How could you be so sure? Suppose I sabotaged it myself using my incredible powers of the mind."
"You have no powers," said the Makuta, picking up a wickedly sharp blade. "You have no mind. You are about to have no head. ~ Greg Farshtey

How could he explain to her that it was better this way, that yes, an object could hold a person, that you could talk to a photograph, that you could kiss a ring, that by breathing into a harmonica, you can give voice to someone far away. But photographs can be lost. In your sleep, a ring can be slipped from your finger by the thief in your barracks. Ga had seen an old man lose the will to live - you could see it go out of him - when a prison guard made him hand over a locket. No, you had to keep the people you loved safer than that. They had to become as fixed to you as a tattoo, which no one could take away. ~ Adam Johnson

If you want converts, surely one normal person is worth all the half-wits in the world!" "May I tell you the truth Lieutenant Rahms? The truth, Sir, is that God's viewpoint is sometimes different from ours. So different that we could not even guess at it unless He had given us a Book which tells us such things. In the scripture I learn that God values us not for our strength or our brains, but simply because He has made us. Who knows, in His eyes, a half-wit may be worth more than a watchmaker. Or a Lieutenant. ~ Corrie Ten Boom

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was.

But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out ~ Emily Giffin

I never think about a movie when I'm writing a book, because I think only two things could happen and both of them are bad. You write a lousy novel and a lousy film. ~ Don Winslow

Could you tell me how to grow
or is it unconveyed
like Melody
or Witchcraft? ~ Emily Dickinson

You needed love to win at the game of music ... I played of sadness. I played of loneliness. Despair. Love found and lost. I played of tragic misunderstanding and weary cynicism and defeat. I played of perseverance, endurance beyond all suffering. Endurance in the face of hopelessness, hope when even hope was a betrayal ... And yet, though I played so much sadness, the music at the same time denied despair. How could anyone despair while music was being played? ~ K.A. Applegate

We are not slaves but children of our Father, free to do good, free to sin. So when in anguish over any human violence done to innocent victims, we ask of God, 'How could you let that happen?' it's well to remember that God at that very moment is asking the exact same question of us. ~ William Sloane Coffin

How could it be that you could love someone so much and keep it secret from yourself as you woke daily so far from home? ~ Alice Sebold

You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such romping ways? said Meg reprovingly. ~ Louisa May Alcott

I put down my pencil and sigh. "Could you go eat that somewhere else? I swear, you must be the noisiest apple eater in the history of time."
One shoulder goes up in a shrug. "I like it here. And I love eating apples."
The way his voice lowers on the second sentence gives off the hint of an innuendo. It riles me up enough to respond harshly, "I'm sure you do, Jason. I'm sure you love eating all different sorts of apples."
Jesus Christ, did I just say that? Kill me now.
"Actually, I'm loyal to just the one apple," he counters.
The way his eyes dance and shine makes me want to laugh. I hate how he does this to me. Our conversation right now is verging on the ridiculous. Still, I don't let it drop.
"You can't be loyal to only one apple. Once it's eaten it's gone, and you need to go find a new one."
"Oh, I could eat my apple over and over again without ever feeling the need to find a new one."
"Maybe your apple doesn't want to be eaten. Maybe your apple is tired of your apple-eating ways."
He leans forward, one elbow resting on the table, his gaze growing even darker. "On the contrary, my apple loves to be eaten. In fact, my apple is a little cranky right now because she hasn't been eaten in a while."
The bloody cheek of him! ~ L.H. Cosway

You impose limits on your true nature of infinite being. Then you get displeased to be only a limited creature. Then you begin spiritual practices to transcend these non-existing limits. But if your practice itself implies the existence of these limits, how could they allow you to transcend them. ~ Ramana Maharshi

Should novels generally be 600 pages? No, they should not. Half of writing, maybe 3/4 of writing, is editing. This seems to be a thing that has not gotten through to them. It's my impression that you could get rid of half of most of these books. These people are not good enough to be this long, but they're apparently also not good enough to be shorter. ~ Fran Lebowitz

You have always been my only muse. I cannot paint or sculpt. I have only my words to render your likeness. Sometimes I wish I were both God and Adam so I could tear out my rib and create you from my own flesh. I would say I'd create you from my heart, but I gave that to you when you left me. But that's a cliché, isn't it? Sadly, that's all I have these days. The whole story is a cliché. I desired you. I ate of you. I lost you. That ancient story – older than the Garden, old as the Snake. I would have liked to call this story of ours The Temptation but the word temptation, once the province of pious theologians, has now been co-opted by every third second-rate romance novelist. And although I loved you, my beautiful girl, this is not a romance novel. ~ Tiffany Reisz

The novel had reached its apogee with the marriage plot and had never recovered from its disappearance. In the days when success in life had depended on marriage, and marriage had depended on money, novelists had had a subject to write about. The great epics sang of war, the novel of marriage. Sexual equality, good for women, had been bad for the novel. And divorce had undone it completely. What would it matter whom Emma married if she could file for separation later? How would Isabel Archer's marriage to Gilbert Osmond have been affected by the existence of a prenup? As far as Saunders was concerned, marriage didn't mean much anymore, and neither did the novel. Where could you find the marriage plot nowadays? You couldn't. You had to read historical fiction. You had to read non-Western novels involving traditional societies. Afghani novels, Indian novels. You had to go, literarily speaking, back in time. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides

I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that a disguise is always a self portrait, how true of you, the combination to your safe – your measurements. But this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you worked for. But you just couldn't resist it, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof. ~ Mark Gatiss

Dimitri? She tried not to influence him. It was their decision together, not just hers. She knew he would listen with an open mind to her reasons and she wanted to be able to do the same for him.
His laughter was soft in her mind, filling her with an odd tingling sensation, with a small rush of heat. Skyler.
That was it. Her name. She sent him a look from under her lashes, one she usually reserved for Josef. Are you mocking me?
Teasing you. Just a little. We're getting the wolf pups. How could I possibly say no to a gift like that? You would never stop arguing with me.
Discussing. I was totally prepared to be reasonable and listen to you and then show you all the reasons you were absolutely wrong if you disagreed.
Dimitri burst out laughing. ~ Christine Feehan

It may sometimes happen that a truth, an insight, which you have slowly and laboriously puzzled out by thinking for yourself could have easily have been found already written in a book: but it is a hundred times more valuable if you have arrived at it by thinking for yourself. For only then will it enter your thought system as an integral part and living member, be perfectly and firmly consistent with it and in accord with all its other consequences and conclusions, bear the hue, colour and stamp of your whole manner of thinking, and have arrived at just the moment it was needed ; thus it will stay firmly and forever lodged in your mind. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer

Anything can be an instrument, Chugurh said. Small things. Things you wouldn't even notice. They pass from hand to hand. People don't pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that nothing is the same. Well, you say. It's just a coin. For instance. Nothing special there. What could that be an instrument of? You see the problem. to separate the act from the the thing. As if the parts of some moment in history might be interchangeable with the parts of some other moment. How could that be? Well, it's just a coin. Yes. That's true. Is it? ~ Cormac McCarthy

I wrote a letter to you when I was in the capital. So stupid, to put it all in writing. Every thing I'd done. The information I passed to Tensen. The way I worked against the empire. What I felt. My father read it. He gave it to the emperor." She was weeping. "And I know, I know that it hurt him, that I broke something, that he felt it break. Maybe I wasn't me anymore, to him. Do you understand? Not his daughter. Not anyone he knew. Just a lying stranger. But how could he? Why couldn't he love me most? Or enough. Why couldn't he love me enough to choose me over his rules? ~ Marie Rutkoski

Look at all the old wars, centuries ago: the king led his men into battle. Always. That was what the ruler was: both on a practical level and on a mystical one, he was the one who stepped forwards to lead his tribe, put his life at stake for them, become the sacrifice for their safety. If he had refused to do that most crucial thing at that most crucial moment, they would have ripped him apart- and rightly so: he would have shown himself to be an impostor, with no right to the throne. The king was the country; how could he possibly expect it go into battle without him? But now... Can you see any modern president or prime minister on the front line, leading his men into the war he's started? And once that physical and mystical link is broken, once the ruler is no longer willing to be the sacrifice for his people, he becomes not a leader but a leech, forcing others to take his risks while he sits in safety and battens on their losses. War becomes a hideous abstraction, a game for bureaucrats to play on paper; soldiers and civilians become mere pawns, to be sacrificed by the thousand for reasons that have no roots in any reality. As soon as rulers mean nothing, war means nothing; human life means nothing. We're ruled by venal little usurpers, all of us, and they make meaninglessness everywhere they go. ~ Tana French

I've been actively engaged with mythic imagery ever since I picked up that Rackham book, but it really came into focus for me when I moved from London to the country. As I walked the extraordinary landscape of Dartmoor, I looked at the trees and the rocks and the hills and I could see the personality in those forms ... then they metamorphosed under my pencil into faeries, goblins and trolls. After Alan and I published "Faeries", he moved on from the subject of faery folklore to illustrate Tolkien and other literary works ... while I discovered that my own exploration of Faerieland had only just begun. In the countryside, the old stories seemed to come alive around me; the faeries were a tangible aspect of the landscape, pulses of spirit, emotion, and light. They "insisted" on taking form under my pencil, emerging on the page before me cloaked in archetypal shapes drawn from nature and myth. I'd attracted their attention, you see, and they hadn't finished with me yet. ~ Brian Froud

How far could you trace back such a chain, he wondered, past the Harmon girl being chosen that night to bring his food, past the tree shattering a man's backbone due to a badly notched trunk, past that to an axe unsharpened because a man drank too much the night before, past that to why the man had gotten drunk in the first place? Was it something you never found the end to? Or was there no chain at all, just a moment when you did or didn't step close to a young woman and let you fingers brush a fall of blonde hair behind her ears, did or did not lean to that uncovered ear and tell her that you found her quite fetching." ~G. Pemberton (58) ~ Ron Rash

You looked at me like you saw something good. You made me remember everything I loved about you, before I'd fallen. And how could I ever damn such a beautiful creature? I couldn't. That look made me want to be a better man, for you ~ Jillian Peery

You may think novelists always have fixed plans to which they work, so that the future predicted by Chapter One is always inexorably the actuality of Chapter Thirteen. But novelists write for countless different reasons: for money, for fame, for reviewers, for parents, for friends, for loved ones; for vanity, for pride, for curiosity, for amusement: as skilled furniture makers enjoy making furniture, as drunkards like drinking, as judges like judging, as Sicilians like emptying a shotgun into an enemy's back. I could fill a book with reasons, and they would all be true, though not true of all. Only one same reason is shared by all of us: we wish to create worlds as real as, but other than the world that is. Or was. This is why we cannot plan. We know a world is an organism, not a machine. ~ John Fowles

Part 2
Etienne: I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn't have, again and again. She was nothing compared to you. I've never felt this way about anybody before…

Anna: But…

Etienne: The first day of school. We weren't physics partners by accident. I saw Professeur Wakefield assigning lab parnters based on where people were sitting, so I leaned forward to borrow a pencil form you at just the right moment so he'dt think we were next to each other. Anna, I wanted to be your partner the first day.

Anna: But …

Etienne: I bought you love poetry! „I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul." Neruda. I starred the pasasge. God. Why didn't you open it?

Anna: Because you said it was for school

Etienne: I said you were beautiful. I slept in your bed!

Anna: You never made a move! You had a girlfriend!

Etienne: No matter what a terrible boyfriend I was, I wouldn't actually cheat on her.
But I thought you'd know. With me being there, I thought you'd know.

Anna: How could I know if you never said anything?

Etienne: How could I know if you never said anything?

Anna: You had Ellie!

Etienne: You had Toph! And Dave! Anna. I'm sorry for what happened in Luxembourg Gardens. Not because of the kiss – I've never had a kiss like that in my life – but because I didn't tell you why I ~ Stephanie Perkins

You know, I was a kid who had difficulty speaking English when I first immigrated. But in my head, when I read a book, I spoke English perfectly. No one could correct my Spanish. And I think that I retreated to books as a way, you know, to be, like, masterful in a language that was really difficult for me for many years. ~ Junot Diaz

But the swamp don't mind. How could it? It's all just life, going over itself, returning and cycling and eating itself to grow. I mean, it's not that it's not Noisy here. Sure it is, there's no escaping Noise, not nowhere at all, but it's quieter than the town. The loud is a different kind of loud, because swamp loud is just curiosity, creachers figuring out who you are and if yer a threat. Whereas the town knows all about you already and wants to know more and wants to beat you with what it knows till how can you have any of yerself left at all? ~ Patrick Ness

Because I don't feel broken when you look at me. (Acheron)
How could you feel broken? (Tory)
I was shattered as a child and thrown away, like a piece of trash no on wanted. But you don't treat me like that. You see in me the human bit and you touch that part of me. You make me feel whole and wanted. (Acheron) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

Thousands of years ago, the work that people did had been broken down into jobs that were the same every day, in organizations where people were interchangeable parts. All of the story had been bled out of their lives. That was how it had to be; it was how you got a productive economy. But it would be easy to see a will at work behind this: not exactly an evil will, but a selfish will. The people who'd made the system thus were jealous, not of money and not of power but of story. If their employees came home at day's end with interesting stories to tell, it meant that something had gone wrong: a blackout, a strike, a spree killing. The Powers That Be would not suffer others to be in stories of their own unless they were fake stories that had been made up to motivate them. People who couldn't live without story had been driven into the concents or into jobs like Yul's. All others had to look somewhere outside of work for a feeling that they were part of a story, which I guessed was why Saeculars were so concerned with sports, and with religion. How else could you see yourself as part of an adventure? Something with a beginning, middle, and end in which you played a significant part? We avout had it ready-made because we were a part of this project of learning new things. Even if it didn't always move fast enough for people like Jesry, it did move. You could tell where you were and what you were doing in that story. Yul got all of this for free by living his stories from day to ~ Neal Stephenson

Actual class struggles apart, one of the aesthetic ways you could prove that there was a class system in America was by cogitating on the word, or acronym, 'WASP.' First minted by E. Digby Baltzell in his book The Protestant Establishment, the term stood for 'White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.' Except that, as I never grew tired of pointing out, the 'W' was something of a redundancy (there being by definition no BASPs or JASPs for anyone to be confused with, or confused about). 'ASP,' on the other hand, lacked some of the all-important tone. There being so relatively few Anglo-Saxon Catholics in the United States, the 'S' [sic] was arguably surplus to requirements as well. But then the acronym AS would scarcely do, either. And it would raise an additional difficulty. If 'Anglo-Saxon' descent was the qualifying thing, which surely it was, then why were George Wallace and Jerry Falwell not WASPs? After all, they were not merely white and Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, but very emphatic about all three things. Whereas a man like William F. Buckley, say, despite being a white Irish Catholic, radiated the very sort of demeanor for which the word WASP had been coined to begin with. So, for the matter of that, did the dapper gentleman from Richmond, Virginia, Tom Wolfe. Could it be, then, that WASP was really a term of class rather than ethnicity? Q.E.D. ~ Christopher Hitchens