Quotes by Patrick Ness

Theres her silence, loud as a roar, pulling at me like the greatest sadness ever, like I want to take it and press myself into it and just disappear forever down into nothing.What a relief that would feel like right now. What a blessed relief.

We stay watching the fire, which probably is just a fire, but we watch it together. Me and my friends. And therell be a tomorrow, of course there will, when it all begins again, but right now is almost a kind of loop for me, something to feel on the inside of, but this time its good. Its a loop with my friends that would even be a pretty damn good forever.

I dont believe in guardian angels, Regine says seriously. Just people who are there for you and people who arent.

No one ever seems to wonder what happens if it turns out we hate living on a planet? What if the sky’s too big? What if the air stinks? What if we go hungry?’‘And what if the air tastes of honey? What if there’s so much food we all get too fat? What if the sky is so beautiful we don’t get any work done because we’re all looking at it too much?

He really is alone in whatever hell this is.Completely and utterly alone.It isnt, he thinks, as he trudges back toward his house, the most unfamiliar feeling in the world.

Just remember, please, most of that stuff is in the past. It isnt the story I want to tell. At all.You needed to know it, but for the rest of this, Im choosing my own story.Because if you cant do that, you might as well just give up.

But this, all this, isnt the story Im trying to tell. This is all past. This is the part of your life where it gets taken over by other peoples stories and theres nothing you can do about it except hold on tight and hope youre still alive at the end to take up your own story again. So thats what we did. Me, Mel, and Meredith all moved on, and were the stories were living now.Arent we?

I wanted so badly for there to be more. I ached for there to be more than my crappy little life. He shakes his head. And there was more. I just couldnt see it.

Her accents funny, different from mine, different from anyone in Prentisstowns. Her lips make different kinds of outlines for the letters, like theyre swooping down on them from above, pushing them into shape, telling them what to say. In Prentisstown, everyone talks like theyre sneaking up on their words, ready to club them from behind.

And I put my hand on her arm to stop her rowing.Aaron’s Noise roars up in red and black.The current takes us on.“I’m sorry!” I cry as the river takes us away, my words ragged things torn from me, my chest pulled so tight I can’t barely breathe. “I’m sorry, Manch

I wish I had a hundred years, she said, very quietly. A hundred years I could give to you.

A man without a filter, is chaos walking

Blame is a human concept, one of its blackest and most selfish and self-binding.

Like how stars might sound. Or moons But not mountains. Too floaty for mountains. Its a sound like one planet singing to another, high stretched and full of different voices starting at different notes and sloping down to other different notes but all weaving together in a rope of sound thats sad but not sad and slow but not slow and all singing one word. One word.

He is worse than the others, I show. He is worst of all of them.Because–Because he knew he was doing wrong. He felt the pain of his actions–But he did not amend them, shows the Sky.The rest are worth as much as their pack animals, I show, but worst is the one who knows better and does nothing.

Cuz how do you know yer alive if you dont hurt?

Stories dont always have happy endings.This stopped him. Because they didnt, did they? Thats one thing the monster had definitely taught him. Stories were wild, wild animals and went off in directions you couldnt expect.

Yes, Kumiko said, seriously. Exactly that. The extraordinary happens all the time. So much, we cant take it. Life and happiness and heartache and love. If we couldnt put it in story - And explain it -No! she said, suddenly sharp. Not explain. Stories do not explain. They seem to, but all they provide is a starting point. The story never ends at the end. There is always after. And even within itself, even by saying that this version is the right one, it suggests other versions, versions that exist in parallel. No, story is not an explanation, it is a net, a net through which the truth flows. The net catches some of the truth, but not all, never all, only enough so that we can live with the extraordinary without it killing us. She sagged a little, as if exhausted by this speech. As it surely, surely would.

Who am I? I am the spine that the mountains hang upon! I am the tears that the rivers cry! I am the lungs that breathe the wind! I am the wolf that kills the stag, the hawk that kills the mouse, the spider that kills the fly! I am the stag, the mouse and the fly that are eaten! I am the snake of the world devouring its tail! I am everything untamed and untameable!

Did it matter? George thought perhaps it did, and not in terms of finding truth or of any hope of discovering what really happened at any given moment. There were as many truths - overlapping, stewed together - as there were tellers. The truth mattered less than storys life. A story forgotten died. A story remembered not only lived, but grew.