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“You know what?” Harry said to Ron and Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. “I think we’d better check with Puddlemere
United whether Oliver Wood’s been killed during a training session, because she seems to be channeling his spirit.”

“Harry, don’t go picking a row with Malfoy, don’t forget, he’s a prefect now, he could make life difficult for you. . . .”
“Wow, I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life?” said Harry sarcastically. Ron laughed, but Hermione frowned.
i love ts book

That person was Shawn, and I was looking at him but I wasn't seeing him. I don't know what I saw-what creature I conjured from that vio-lent, compassionate act—but I think it was my father, or perhaps my father as I wished he were, some longed-for defender, some fanciful champion, one who wouldn't fling me into a storm, and who, if I was hurt, would make me whole.

We arrived and Mother transformed. She issued a string of commands, to the father, to the mother, and to me. I almost forgot to do what she asked, I couldn't take my eyes off her. I realize now that that night I was seeing her for the first time, the secret strength of her.

And I renewed myself in that image, of my French piano-playing lover. But every second I died.
And it was a very dignified, respectable way to go.

Some lipsticks really do have a lasting touch, and Catholicism couldn't give a damn. Take the part where everyone drinks the blood of Christ from the same cup. Holy germ-sharing!

It dawned on me that the apartment might be a front, that in a back room somewhere, a hoard of pretty girls was possibly gagged and bound, hands and feet tied together with one long, improbably knotted rope. My mouth went dry. What would become of me? I wasn't even pretty!

Brigitte represented what I imagined my future would have looked like if my aunt hadn't put me out on the street: a lifetime pensioner with an autistic dog as her only companion.

what do u do when ur suicidal but have ocd about how u die

I am assaulted by the delirious notion that I wasted my time at university… This realization gives way to a series of symptoms: a stabbing pang in the chest… another kind of pain that is slippery rather than stabbing and radiates to every extremity of my body like a weighty, ravenous sorrow... This must be like the pain that follows an abortion, the residual sadness of a life unlived, clinging clawlike to life.

"Now what?" I wailed. "I've lost five years of my life! It's too late to switch to a degree in fine arts." At twenty-three, it's too late for everything. Not until our forties do we realize there's still time. Maybe not for everything, but at least for everything that matters.

Still, I couldn't seem to fall in love. I basically made friends, most of whom ended up as my lovers. Now and then, a lover would fall in love with me and I'd have the impression that life was staring me dead in the eye in its most unflattering wig.

ok finally reading the actual one
first page made me nervy bc it was like poetry and incomprehensible but the whole thing is just weird & suicidal so getting used to it

The setting sun shone in the green water of the Jhelum; its last rays reddened the horizon. I thought of my grandmother telling me as a child, "When an innocent man is killed, the sky turns red." An innocent man had died in Kashmir almost every day after the winter of 1990.

Jammu, a small city with brutal summers, had become the refuge for most Kashmiri Pandits. I was nervous at the prospect of seeing my teacher and my childhood friend as refugees.

i appreciate how honest he is about the difficulty of documenting these tragedies and horrors

When I came across an old copy of George Orwell's Homage to Cata-lonia, 1 developed an obsession with his merging of the personal and the political, the small details and the big ideas, his sparse, powerful prose. Homage to Catalonia brought back many memories of Kashmir and made me believe that writing similarly about my own war might be possible someday.

sorry ts is no homage to cataluña

"Nehru and Gandhi studied law in England and were both very good writers. You have seen their books in our library. Václav Havel is a very big writer. The Dalai Lama has read a lot and can teach people many things. None of them used guns but they changed history. If you want to do something for Kashmir, I would say you should read."

The best story was about the magical Kalashnikov. Made in Russia, a gift from Pakistan, it was known to have powers greater than Aladdin's lamp.

When the guests have gone, it's just Dad and me. His eyes are blood-shot, and it does something to a girl—even a grown girl with an awful father—to see her father hurt. Maybe that's why I've looked away.

Dad stuffs his hands into his suit pockets. "There's a Braum's across the street."
I frown. "Okay?"
"Want to go?"

WHAT

Brushing a few crumbs off my lap, I announce that we should go. Jet still has science homework, and Seth will need to go out.
Ryan clicks his tongue. "Yikes, science. Can't help you there" Like he has ever helped with her homework. How can he say and do such normal things when he's said and done such awful ones? To be fair, how can he say and do such awful things when he's said and done such normal ones?