Quotes Room G-R

Welcome to the Quotes Room G-R.

"It's such a pleasure to write down splendid words -

almost as though one were inventing them".

(Rupert Hart-Davis)

This page features a portion of my favourite quotes from the novels reviewed on this blog. The books are listed by titles, in alphabetical order, from G to R. Every title is also linked to its respective review. Of course, this is an ever-growing project, so be sure to check it out from time to time. (Basically, every time I review a new book, I'm going to add quotes if I find any of its sentences inspiring or witty). Enjoy!




There's a cat-shaped hole where Tybalt used to be, floating in her [i.e.: Mom's] footsteps.

[...] every person we pass has robed up, and each time we go by they make this gesture of blessing and prayer. Or maybe it's a hex, depending on the person. I don't do anything in return. Only one hand gesture springs to mind, and it just isn't appropriate.

There is nothing good here. There never has been. [...] We don't belong here. Wherever it is, it is the lack of everything. No light, no darkness. No air or taste. It's nothing; a void.
I don't want to think anymore. My eyes might pop and run out of my head. I might break my skull against the bottom and listen to the empty pieces, wobbling like the discarded shell of an egg. [...]
This place exists in the wake of a scream.

You didn't want to blow high the highlights, and you had to give the shadows all the detail you could by finding the darkest max black areas and then shooting them three zones lighter.
By shooting the darkest areas three zones lighter, you turned a black, lifeless max black zone 0 into a zone 3.
I think, in life, most of us did this all the time.

[...] Ellie knew what all girls knew - we were here to be whatever men wanted us to be.
We were here to touch their tipis.

I tried to think of one single message out there that said the opposite, but I couldn't think of one. Everywhere I'd looked for seventeen years said, under the slick imagery, "You are here to look pretty, keep quiet, and touch tipis."



My cell phone glared at me from my desk. I reached for it, then stopped. Mom and Dad could reach me on my cell if they were worried, but I hated that. Just when you were away from them and having fun, the portable babysitter rang and interrupted everything.
[Note: I love this paragraph because I love Bea's stance on technology. Through the whole book, she doesn't make a big deal about it. Her cell phone is more of a nuisance than anything, because it means she can be reached by her parents...but it's more like she states her right to live the moment without being interrupted or annoyed by "anyone's" calls. Cell phones aren't all the freedom people thinks they are. Most of the time, they only manage to prevent you from having a life. Oh, the luxury of going around without having to be found].

Even if you know what's coming, you're never prepared for how it feels.


Except blowing up isn't always external. It's not always easy to hear or see. Synapses fire every day in my brain. Thinking is just like exploding until it eventually scars you and you can't interact with people anymore. It's like one big, final detonation.






[Sloane]: How can I possibly even scratch the surface of honoring Bill at an event like this? The adult world that runs our school considers this a teachable moment (a new phrase for our era) where children will learn to process loss and grief and loneliness by sitting in the football bleachers and being presented with the truth of mortality. There's nothing to be taught. Only something to be felt. And I swear to God no one needs to sit in football bleachers to feel it.

[Maggie]: A little chill runs through me. Why would I want to fantasize that I'm a lonely girl with an inattentive mother and a tragically dead father and no real friends to speak of besides my little sister? Doesn't it make more sense that I'm Maggie, dreaming of a life where she's about to scarf pancakes burned with love? That's craziness, I know. But maybe I need to think of my life as the dream life. Maybe that will help me appreciate and enjoy it more.

I don't know why I'm crying. They're probably vodka tears. You don't fall in love with someone after one afternoon at a river, even if you've known them since Preps and think they're kind of cute. You fall in hope, and that leads to daydreaming about love. And yes, I had been daydreaming and it did feel good, believing that a guy - a popular guy - might fall in love with me, thinking that finally I might be able to be me with someone, and have a future, being one half of a pair. Now I'm just me and by myself again.

It's the sort of thing that can only happen to me. I lean too close, I laugh too loud, I try too hard. And I get burned.

It's turning out different from the way I thought it would. We were going to take this city by storm, the two of us, a double act no one could top. But I'm feeling lonelier than I've ever felt before. We aren't connected anymore, the way we used to be, as though we've traded in the old model of our friendship for a newer, more sophisticated, complex model, which neither of us knows how to drive. I keep hoping that we'll learn, that it's just growing pains, that our friendship will last But maybe it won't. Maybe we've changed, don't want the same things anymore, or want the same thing too much. We're coming to some sort of crossroad and I have the strongest sensation we're going to go our separate ways. And I find myself wondering if Dale's noticed, or whether she even cares.

I'm left lying in the dark, wrestling with that yellow-and-green-eyed monster. I want to punch it on the nose, but it's bigger than me. I can feel that old lack of confidence nagging at me again, undermining me. I have to work hard at talking myself into believing that what I am doing is important too. That I am a necessary part of the team. But it always strikes me that, at the end of a song, at the end of the night, she gets the applause. She gets the man. I never do.

Because success is not about who we are, what we sound like - it's all about what other people make of us, how they perceive us. It has nothing to do with us.

Maybe it's because Buddy's arm is around me, or maybe it's that voice - my voice that has been silent for too long, starting to talk at me again, telling me that just because a dream stops, it doesn't mean you stop dreaming. Or maybe it's just that the time is right, that I'm ready to let go of one part of my life to start another, ready to be touched again in that part of myself that is the most private and the most hopeful and loving. I lean into Buddy, we sit looking out, and I give the little kid who doesn't live here anymore permission to cry.


He's seeing the actual Milky Way streaked across the sky. The whole of his entire galaxy, right there in front of him. Billions and billions of stars. Billions and billions of worlds. All of them, all those seemingly endless possibilities, not fictional, but real, out there, existing, right now. There is so much more out there than just the world he knows, so much more than his tiny Washington town, so much more than even London. Or England. Or hell, for that matter.
So much more that he'll never see So much more that he'll never get to. So much that he can only glimpse enough of to know that it's forever beyond his reach.
The clouds close up again. The Milky Way vanishes.






► He watched them and noticed how none of them recognized him when they glanced the short distance over and saw him across from where they were waiting. He was not in the proper context. He felt slightly sad about this, as if without his book he was nobody, as if, in a sense, he was his own book’s “plus one” guest.

► The writer and the reader had shared a moment where they had understood one another completely, right down to their bared souls, except that the writer had not been there. Only his words had, only the thoughts that he had had two years prior to the reader’s discovering them. Like gazing at a star that twinkles long after its own death, the reader had seen only the writer’s emanation and had loved it, even though there was nothing there and the reader had also been alone in a room, just as the writer had been when he had recorded his long-expired thoughts.

► It was astounding to her that somewhere that sort of freedom existed—the freedom to love everybody and to not have to pretend that some people were inappropriate for you and some people were just there to shake hands with and move on from instead of to really get to know. She wanted to explore the experience of knowing anyone she wanted. Maybe art was the key.It was astounding to her that somewhere that sort of freedom existed—the freedom to love everybody and to not have to pretend that some people were inappropriate for you and some people were just there to shake hands with and move on from instead of to really get to know. She wanted to explore the experience of knowing anyone she wanted. Maybe art was the key.

► Mrs. Dwight T. Randall began her fanciful art collection on a hot summer day after being dropped off at home by a grocery boy.
She was wide-eyed with wonder, seven months and a few weeks pregnant, and the loneliest she’d ever been. But when she had the idea of wanting to put art on her walls, and when she connected it with the articles she had read and all the spirit with which the artists did what they did, her loneliness lifted, and she would never feel it in that same way again.

► She sat in the hall in the chair next to the table below the mirror. She did not remember that chair ever being used by anyone, not even a salesman or deliveryman. It was a chair that simply sat in the hall as if in a waiting room, and she finally used it and finally understood what it was for. It was for when you did not know what room to go to and you did not know what to do next. It was for when you could not decide whether to stay in the house or run out screaming or simply lie down on the floor and wait to die.

► It had not occurred to him or any man of his generation to share the feelings inside them when their women complained or talked about things they didn’t have, which translated to complaint for the man who heard those words.
And because they never told the women about how they heard things, the women were never able to, in turn, let them know that what they were doing was not complaining but sharing dreams and hoping that perhaps the husband would join them in their fantasy. 
And so, the men and women went on in their mutual confusion, living together, occasionally one of them expressing how it would be better if things were different while all the other heard was that they were inadequate.
Eventually, walls were built to protect their hearts.

► She wanted to know what people thought of her without actually being aware of what she was. Fame was the only way out of the task of actually living her life and dealing with all the human intimacy that would be required for that life to become worthwhile and real.






Kane turned to the room of stolen dreams, and he recalled the library of his childhood. The feeling of thick air and soft spines, of tilting your head sideways to read the names of authors. Mostly, Kane recalled the intoxicating potential of it all. For a child like Kane, potential was his forever friend. The promise of something else - or somewhere else - where Kane could start over and actually belong. It wasn't just about finding a world that would tolerate him. It was about imagining a world that loved him back. That enjoyed him.
Kids like Kane weren't often enjoyed.

► He reminded himself of the few reveries he'd witnessed. They all taught him something new about the way dreams inhabit a person. Dreams can be parasites we sacrifice ourselves to. Dreams can be monstrous, beautiful things incubated in misery and hatched by spite. Or dreams can be the artifacts we excavate to discover what we really are.


  1. I LOVE that quote from How to Say Goodbye in Robot about cellphones. As convenient as they are, they really do take away a lot of freedom and living in the moment.

    1. I don't even have one, go figure. Though sometimes I have to borrow my hubby's when the bank or some other institution force me to give them a number...

      Thank you for breathing a little life into this page - I don't think anyone commented on my quote pages before!

    2. I'm obsessed with quotes, so I had to check these pages out!

    3. Ha! At least my hard work has been for something! 😉


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