genreads

[genreads]

hi friends, i know i haven't posted a lot and i never post anything personal, but this is what i look like, if any of y'all were wondering :)

[genreads]

But this was the truth, a pitiful boy who desperately wanted not to be pitiful, screaming and crying, poisoned by an infected G-tube that kept him alive, but not alive enough.

John Green, The Fault in Our Stars (page 245)

[genreads]

So after, when he whispers, ‘You love me. Real or not real?’ I tell him, ‘Real.’

Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay (page 388)

[genreads]

This was the way the night had cashed in. Choices had been made and things happened, and here we were. It was sad and funny. My life was made of this. Stuff like this.

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (page 155)

[genreads]

But there are much worse games to play.

Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay (page 390)

[genreads]

'It's so much more angry in my head than it could ever be outside.'

Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story (page 375)

[genreads]

We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.

Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay (page 379)

[genreads]

Everyone pretends to be normal and be your friend, but underneath, everyone is living some other life you don’t know about, and if only we had a camera on us at all times, we could go and watch each other’s tapes and find out what each of us is really like.

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (page 5)

[genreads]

The atmosphere was a held breath, and the shadowed house fronts were sleeping dogs.

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (page 41)

[genreads]

I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?

Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak (page 188)

[genreads]

The wind came in languid gusts like whispered reminders.

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (page 41)

[genreads]

This was the way the night had cashed in. Choices had been made and things happened, and here we were. It was sad and funny. My life was made of this. Stuff like this.

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (page 155)

[genreads]

And there was so much noise. A symphony of grinding, a chorus of popping, an aria of exploding, and finally, the sad clapping of hard metal cutting into soft trees. Then it went quiet, except for this: Beethoven's Cello Sonata no. 3, still playing. The car radio somehow still is attached to a battery and so Beethoven is broadcasting into the once-again tranquil February morning.

Gayle Forman, If I Stay (page 15)

[genreads]

I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.

Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (page 103)

[genreads]

'Someday no one will remember that she ever existed,' I wrote in my notebook, and then, 'or that I did.' Because memories fall apart, too. And then you're left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but with its shadow. In the beginning, she had haunted me, haunted my dreams, but even now, just weeks later, she was slipping away, falling apart in my memory and everyone else's, dying again.

John Green, Looking for Alaska (page 196)

[genreads]

For she had embodied the Great Perhaps – she had proved to me that it was worth it to leave my minor life for grander maybes, and now she was gone and with her my faith in perhaps.

John Green, Looking for Alaska (page 172)

[genreads]

I wish I was Mexican, or Hebrew, I mean Jewish, I mean Israeli, or Mexican Jewish, or Mexican Jewish gay, because it can be so boring being you sometimes, and if you were the most special thing like that it could be really great, but maybe some people say the same thing about you, and you want to tell those people: 'No, you're stupid, it's no fun being me.'

James Franco, Palo Alto Stories (pages 188-189)