O rosto que você apresenta ao mundo diz ao mundo como tratar você (...).
Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer. I still love scribbling that word—WRITER—anytime
Nothing had consequence, I was living in the moment and I could feel myself getting shallower and dumber.
No parents should see their child die, that such an event is like nature spun backward.
Nick loved me. A six-o kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. Nick loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t...
Nick and I, we sometimes laugh, laugh out loud, at the horrible things women make their husbands do to prove their love. The pointless tasks, the myriad sacrifices, the endless small surrenders. We ca...
My parents’ cherished heirloom looks ridiculous in the new house. But then all our New York stuff does. Our dignified elephant of a chesterfield with its matching baby ottoman sits in the living room...
My brother slaughtered my family when I was seven. My mom, two sisters, gone: bang bang, chop chop, choke choke.
Just … No, Amy. Not right now. I can’t take one more bit of stress. I can’t handle one more thing to worry about. I am cracking under the pressure. I will snap. For once I know he’s telling the truth.
Je n'étais pas une enfant aimable, et je suis devenue une adulte profondément mal aimable. Si on voulait dessiner mon âme, on obtiendrait un gribouillis avec des crocs pointus.
Jag äter chokladkakor och flyter i timmar omkring i poolen i solskenet, så att kloret i vattnet gör mitt skinn gummiartat som på en säl.
I’ve thought about you a lot over these years, been wondering about you. That’s what you do in here … think and wonder. Every once in a while someone’ll write me about you. But it’s not the same.
I’m not one of those reporters who relishes picking through people’s privacy. It’s probably the reason I’m a second-rate journalist.
It’s probably why I was so hateful to her, she kept me from what I wanted the most.
It’s probably the reason I’m a second-rate journalist. One of them, at least.
It’s not stand by your man anymore, it’s divorce the fucker.
It’s good.’ She chirps the last bit as if that were all to say about a book: It’s good or it’s bad. I liked it or I didn’t. No discussions of the writing, the themes, the nuances, the structure. Just...
Item 33: Get the fuck out of Dodge. Check, check, check.
It's so strange to think: A year ago today, I was undoing my husband. Now I am almost done reassembling him.
It's an insane, insane crime, a lot of it isn't going to make sense. That's why people are so obsessed with these murders. If they made any sense, they wouldn't really be mysteries, right?