You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning, do you?
Catalog
Book
Nineteen Minutes
Jodi Picoult, bestselling author of My Sister's Keeper and The Tenth Circle, pens her most riveting book yet, with a startling and poignant story about the devastating aftermath of a small-town tragedy. Sterling is an ordinary New Ham
Characters
But then again, maybe bad things happen because it’s the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like.
There were two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations.
But then again, maybe bad things happen because it’s the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like.
Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?
You don’t need water to feel like you’re drowning, do you?
I think a persons life is supposed to be like a DVD. You can see the version everyone else sees, or you can choose the directors cut-the way he wanted you to see it, before everything else got in the way. There are menus, probably, so that you can start at the good spots and not have to relive the b…
Isn't it amazing how, when you strip away everything, people are so much alike?
You can’t undo something that’s happened; you can’t take back a word that’s already been said out loud.
But then again, maybe bad things happen because it’s the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like.
Do you know how there are moments when the world moves so slowly you can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that no matter what happens to you for the rest of your life, you will remember every last detail of that one minute forever?
You might have to lose control before you could find out what you'd been missing.
Happiness is what you choose to remember.
I know how difficult it can be when the image you've had of something doesn't match its reality; when the friend beside you turns into a monster.
There are two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations.
So much of the language of love was like that: you devoured someone with your eyes, you drank in the sight of him, you swallowed him whole. Love was substance, broken down and beating through your bloodstream.
Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?
Something still exists as long as there's someone around to remember it.
If you spent your life concentrating on what everyone else thought of you, would you forget who you really were? What if the face you showed the world turned out to be a mask... with nothing beneath it?
There were two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations.