Klara Louw

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Falling into Place
Klara Louw is currently reading
by Amy Zhang (Goodreads Author)
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  (page 63 of 304)
"She would have known that most of them aren't crying for her. They're crying for themselves, for fear of death, for the loss of faith in their own invincibility, because if Liz Emerson is mortal, they all are." Feb 17, 2016 10:36AM

 
The Illicit Happi...
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The Infinite Sea
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John Marsden
“Life's harder, the deeper you feel things.”
John Marsden, The Dead of Night

Augusten Burroughs
“I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.”
Augusten Burroughs, Running with Scissors

John Marsden
“My survival was up to me. I had nothing and I had no one. What I did have, I told myself, was my mind, my imagination, my memory, my feelings, my spirit. These were important and powerful things.”
John Marsden, A Killing Frost

John Marsden
“People just sticking names on places, so that no one could see those places properly any more. Every time they looked at them or thought about them the the first thing they saw was a huge big sign saying 'Housing Commission' or 'private school' or 'church' or 'mosque' or 'synagogue'. They stopped looking once they saw those signs.”
John Marsden, Tomorrow, When the War Began

“...her hand closes on smooth metal. Her fingers test the sharpness of the edge. Perfect. It's a fresh blade.
The girls' voices rustle in her head. Their clamoring pushes out all rational thought. She rolls up her sleeve.
The bite of the blade kills the noise. It wipes out the memory of those staring faces. Willow looks at her arm, at the life springing from her. Tiny pinpricks of red that blossom into giant peonies.”
Julia Hoban, Willow

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