Quotes by Nenia Campbell

We feel most alive when we are closest to death.

All statistics have outliers.

Nobody wants to believe that existence carries on without at least taking a stumble from their departure of this world.

Happiness is such a fragile thing, isnt it? So easily burst, like a bubble blown by a child, and always on the verge of being carried away.

Fairytales by nature only talk about the victors. The survivors. Nobody speaks about what happens to those who failed, except in the abstract: as cautionary tales to guide others onto the path to success. How many brave knights fell to the dragon before he was slayed by the noble prince? How many children burned to a crisp and eaten before the wicked witch received her due? These stories are lost, but the lesson behind them is not: it is not enough to be merely pure and good.

Once a flower is picked it immediately begins to die.

What do you want to do with your life, then?” is often the question Im asked.To be honest, I dont know. I really dont.Mainly because I dont see myself living long enough for that to make much of a difference.

Death was not the scariest thing out there; no, the denial of it could be far worse.

He was everything your mother warned you about when she told you not to walk alone in the dark.

If you dont feel the same way about him, if youre just leading him on, you need to tell him that. Ive seen too many nice guys get shafted because a girl cant get over some jerk.

Humanity is a cage, and our puritanical sensibilities comprise the bars. We are confined by our own reason and intellect, and yet most of us dont even know it.

Why did this keep happening? Why her? Perhaps there was some pheromone certain people omitted, perceivable only on a wavelength unique to those individuals who preyed on them.

When they figure out how to bottle up orgasms and sell them as a food additive, Ill be first in line.

We always vilify what we dont understand.

Only the cruelest hunters set their traps with terror and trepidation.

Mamá had always made it clear she believed girls who got raped deserved it. I hadnt done any of the things she said “bad” girls did, though. I didnt parade myself around in sluttish clothes and make untoward advances. But Mamá had been wrong about everything else so far, so maybe shed been wrong about that, too. Maybe it didnt matter whether you were bad or good, prudish or wanton: maybe just being female was enough, for some men. Maybe, like so much else, it was only about control. But then why do I feel so guilty?

You want to be free. You also want to be mine. You cant be both.

Maybe that was the root of my dislike for her: she had what I wanted, which earned her my jealousy, and since I was ashamed of myself for wanting it, my scorn, as well.

People only picked the pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. The ones with thorns were left alone.

be my sonata, my cantata, my lovesing me something sweetbut not too sweet(or i may grow deaf to our harmonyas we decrescendo into silence)