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Lisa See
“How different it is with friendship. No one picks a friend for us; we come together by choice. We are not tied together through ceremony or the responsibility to create a son; we tie ourselves together through moments. The spark when we first meet. Laughter and tears shared. Secrets packed away to be treasured, hoarded, and protected. The wonder that someone can be so different from you and yet still understand your heart in a way no one else ever will.”
Lisa See, The Island of Sea Women

“During trial, the jury was forced to pick; is he wholesome or monstrous. But I never questioned that any of what they said about him was true. In fact I need you to know it was all true. The friendly guy who helps you move and assists senior citizens in the pool is the same guy who assaulted me. One person can be capable of both. Society often fails to wrap its head around the fact that these truths often coexist, they are not mutually exclusive. Bad qualities can hide inside a good person. That's the terrifying part.”
Chanel Miller, Know My Name

Anna-Marie McLemore
“He may have known the surface of the moon, memorized the names of the lunar maria, but Miel had done more than that with him. She'd learned him, but left room for the way he was still learning himself. She knew the shape of him, every place that was shadow and every place that reflected light, without deciding he was hers to name.”
Anna-Marie McLemore, When the Moon Was Ours

John Boyne
“Cyril, you remember Peter and Ruth, don't you?' she said.
'Of course' I replied. 'Happy Christmas. Nice to see you both again.'
'Happy Christmas to you,' said Peter, an enormous man bursting out of an extra-large shirt. 'And may the blessings of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior be with you on this momentous day.'
'Fair enough,' I said 'Hello, Ruth.”
John Boyne, The Heart's Invisible Furies

Anna-Marie McLemore
“God knew what words, or worse, this town would have for a boy who'd been born female. They would wrap their contempt and their cruelty in the lie that they wouldn't have cared, if only he'd told them.
'It's just the dishonesty of it all,' they'd whisper.
'All that lying, it's the lying I hate.'
'How can you trust someone who pretends like that?'
As though the truth of his body was any of their business, as though they had a right to consider how he lived an affront to them.”
Anna-Marie McLemore, When the Moon Was Ours

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