#lit quotes

He pushed the memories aside // Jeanette Winterson.

Not That Kind of Girl // Lena Dunham.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas epigraph.

The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain // Markus Zusak.

What was the difference between love and the agony of waiting? // Orhan Pamuk.

Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together // Anais Nin.

This search is a sign of love, I maintain // Julian Barnes.

We have art in order not to die from the truth // Friedrich Nietzsche.

That’s all life is. Breathing in. Breathing out. The space between two breaths // Leah Raeder.

Unhappiness is selfish. Grief is selfish. For whom are the tears? // Jeanette Winterson.

If two people are meant to be together, eventually they’ll find their way back // Chuck Bass.

In the movies, this would have a happy ending. I grew up, I love, I lose, I learn. And I move on // Leah Raeder.

I just want to smoke my cigarettes and drink my whiskey and for you to love me for the monster I am // Christopher Poindexter.

You think that holding someone will bring them closer. You think that you can hold them so hard that you’ll still feel them, embossed on you, when you pull away // Rainbow Rowell.

If I had recognised this instant of perfect happiness, I would have held it fast and never let it slip away // Orhan Pamuk.

You’re dry and you’re empty and there’s nothing else. There’s nothing else, I tell you. Not a damned thing // Ernest Hemingway.

When he decides he doesn’t love you anymore, here is what you do: move on quietly, love yourself loudly // Karese Burrows.

The question isn’t who is going to let me, it’s who is going to stop me // Ayn Rand.

You can’t be happy unless you’re unhappy sometimes // Lauren Oliver.

I made the discovery - love. All at once and much, much too completely // Tennessee Williams.

Space is a breath of art // Frank Lloyd Wright.

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out through writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it // Anais Nin.