Citati iz knjige „Mosquitoland“ autora David Arnold

Maybe there is some black and white, though. In our choices. In my choices.
I wonder if my sister can feel her mother’s touch. I hope so. And I hope she knows that kind of love is not nothing. It’s a huge something, maybe the biggest of all
that yes, even though the world was fucked up beyond measure, there was beauty to be had and it was waiting for them—maybe
“It’s okay,” I say again, because if I keep saying it, maybe it will be true. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay
A person who was once full. A person who lived and dreamed, and above all, a person who cared for something—for someone. And within that person, he places the possibility of poof—gone—done—to be replaced by a Great Empty Nothingness.
“Did God mess up?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Bubbly Skinned Man, smiling like a fool. “He just got bored.”
I was lovely once, but he never loved me once
love found and love lost; fireworks, fortune cookies, famous rock stars, empty bottles, true compassion, false starts, staying up late, moonlight, sunlight, being a wife, being betrayed, being in my corner, being my mother, being, being, being.
Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you’re making waffles. Don’t settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he’s the right guy (or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there’s nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence. Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite, Iz. You know what I mean, don’t you? (Of course you do. You’re a Malone.)
Because even though honesty is hard, you really have to murder people with it if you expect to be a person of any value at all
And feeling okay is at a premium these days.
That’s the thing about life—you don’t know how long you have until you’re dead, and by then, you don’t know much of anything at all
It’s more than a storage unit for your life and its collections. It’s more than an address, or even the house you grew up in. People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home isthe heart. Not a place or a time, but an organ, pumping life into my life. There may be more mosquitos and stepmothers than I imagined, but it’s still my heart. My home.
Home is hard.
Harder than Reasons.
maybe he can do more now to keep me from becoming Aunt Isabel. But I’m not her, and I never have been. One day, I hope he sees this truth.
What a shame they didn’t remind me to breathe my air
And I think of all the times I thought I wasn’t okay, and all the times maybe I could have been, if only I’d had a Beck Van Buren around to tell me otherwise.
while I don’t know what this new love has to offer, I do know what it demands: grateful tears.
I think the Greeks got it wrong. Because my love for Walt is something new, unnamed, something crazy-wild, youthful, and enthusiastic.
A girl can go her entire life without missing a person, and then, three days later—boom—she can’t imagine life without them.
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