Quotes by Jandy Nelson

Nor that hes regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. Were two paintings staring at each other across a room.

No I contradict myself. Picasso he do too. He say pull out your brain, yes, he also say, Painting is a blind mans profession and To draw you must close your eyes and sing. And Michelangelo, he say he sculpts with his brains, not his eyes. Yes. Everything ia true at once. Life is contradiction. We take in every lesson. We find what works. Okay, now pick up the charcoal and draw.

Are you an artist?Im a mess is what I am, he says, holding on to the building for support. A bloody mess. You re the artist, mate. Then hes gone.

Good. That is it. You will see with your hands, I promise you.

Was the sky always this shade of magenta?

For the sun, stars, oceans, and all the trees, I’ll consider it.

The skys gone blue: azure, the ocean bluer: cerulean, the trees are swirls of every hella freaking green on earth and bright thick eggy yellow is spilling over everything.

Because how could he have done this?How could he have chosen to leave me here all alone?

How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?

Mom has a massive sunflower for a soul so big theres hardly any room in her for organs. Jude and me have one soul between us that we have to share: a tree with its leaves on fire. And Dad has a plate of maggots for his.

Shes a people-mechanic and always knows when Im malfunctioning.

Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?

The coolest guys arent afraid to be feminists.

What if Im in charge of my own damn light switch?

I do not want to eat or drink, or i will lose the taste of you in my mouth

There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds.

When I wear her clothes, I just feel safer, like shes whispering in my ear.

Im in self-imposed exile, cradled between split branches, in my favorite tree in the woods behind school. Ive been coming here every day at lunch, hiding out until the bell rings, whittling words into the branches with my pen, allowing my heart to break in private.

Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

I drop on my back on the bed, panting and sweating. How will I survive this missing? How do others do it? People die all the time. Every day. Every hour. There are families all over the world staring at beds that are no longer slept in, shoes that are no longer worn. Families that no longer have to buy a particular cereal, a kind of shampoo. There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds. For years. For their whole lives. I dont believe time heals. I dont want it to. If I heal, doesnt that mean Ive accepted the world without her?