...I told him a story of two people. Two people who shouldn't have met, and who didn't like each other much when they did, but who found they were the only two people in the world who could possibly have understood each other.

The thing about being catapulted into a whole new life--or at least, shoved up so hard against someone else's life that you might as well have your face pressed against their window--is that it forces you to rethink your idea of who you are. Or how you might seem to other people.

Live boldly. Push yourself. Don't settle.

I turned in my seat. Will’s face was in shadow and I couldn’t quite make it out.‘Just hold on. Just for a minute.’‘Are you all right?’ I found my gaze dropping towards his chair, afraid some part of him was pinched, or trapped, that I had got something wrong.‘I’m fine. I just . . . ’I could see his pale collar, his dark suit jacket a contrast against it.‘I don’t want to go in just yet. I just want to sit and not have to think about . . . ’ He swallowed.Even in the half-dark it seemed effortful.‘I just . . . want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress. Just for a few minutes more.’I released the door handle.‘Sure.’I closed my eyes and lay my head against the headrest, and we sat there together for a while longer, two people lost in remembered music, half hidden in the shadow of a castle on a moonlit hill.

Just live well. Just live

And there it was. He knew it, and I knew it. There was nothing left for me to do. Do you know how hard it is to say nothing ? When every atom of you strains to do the opposite? I just tried to be, tried to absorb the man I loved through osmosis, tried to imprint what I had left of him on myself. I did not speak...

You only get one life. It's actually your duty to live it as fully as possible

I didn't like it when he looked at me like that. I could never escape the feeling that i was being compared to someone else.

I'm not letting go of you.

I'm not letting go of you" - Sam

I want him to live if HE wants to live. If he doesn't, then by forcing him to carry on, you, me..... we become just another shitty bunch of people taking away his choices.

All Chelsea's internet dates were gorgeous. Until she met them.

They were like animals, men. They found too much eye contact threatening.

I needed to tell him, silently, that things might change, grow, or fail, but that life did go on. That we were all part of some great cycle, some pattern that it was only God's purpose to understand.

But now, inside the gallery, something happens to him. He finds his emotions gripped by the paintings, the huge, colorful canvases by Diego Rivera, the tiny, agonized self-portraits by Frida Kahlo, the woman Rivera loved. Fabien barely notices the crowds that cluster in front of the pictures.He stops before a perfect little painting in which she has pictured her spine as a cracked column. There is something about the grief in her eyes that won't let him look away. That is suffering, he thinks. He thinks about how long he's been moping about Sandrine, and it makes him feel embarrassed, self-indulgent. Theirs, he suspects, was not an epic love story like Diego and Frida's.He finds himself coming back again and again to stand in front of the same pictures, reading about the couple's life, the passion they shared for their art, for workers' rights, for each other. He feels an appetite growing within him for something bigger, better, more meaningful. He wants to live like these people. He has to make his writing better, to keep going. He has to.He is filled with an urge to go home and write something that is fresh and new and has in it the honesty of these pictures. Most of all he just wants to write. But what?

I worked out what would make me happy, and I worked out what I wanted to do, and I trained myself to do the job that would make those two things happen' 'You make it sound so simple.''It is simple,' he said. 'The thing is, it's also a lot of hard work. And people don't want to put in a lot of work.

I had never considered that you might miss a job like you missed a limb -- a constant, reflexive thing. I hadn't thought as well as the obvious fears about money, and your future, losing your job would make you feel inadequate, and a bit useless. That it would be harder to get up in the morning than you were rudely shocked in to consciousness by the alarm. That you might missed the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common with them.

Only you, Will Traynor, could tell a woman how to wear a bloody dress.

You know, you can't make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply... off.

I didn't say much; my head was still ringing with the music, and I didn't want it to fade. I kept thinking back to it, the way that Will's friend had been so lost in what he was playing. I hadn't realized that music could unlock things in you, could transport you to somewhere even the composer hadn't predicted. It left an imprint in the air around you, as if you carried its remnants with you when you went.

So this is it. You are scored on my heart, Clark.

I liked the fact that I could be who I wanted to be without my sister's voice reminding me of who I had been.

Because even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you still had your mother or father at your back, you'd be okay.

The only thing Jess really cared about were those two children and letting them know they were okay. Because even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you had your mother at your back, you'd be okay. Some deep-rooted part of you would know you were loved. That you deserved to be loved.

Sometimes just getting through each day requires almost superhuman strength.

You cut yourself off from all sorts of experience because you tell yourself you re not 'that sort of person

There is a whole lot more to life than winning.

I felt the mood shift. And, for no reason at all other than that he didn’t expect it, I climbed fully clothed into the bath and kissed him as he laughed and spluttered. I was suddenly glad of his solidity in a world where it was so easy to fall.

No. Really. I've thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they're not living, breathing people any more. It's not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It's just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a whole. I don't know. It's like you become... a doughnut instead of a bun.

No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days. Today was just a bad day, a kink in the road, to be traversed and survived.

It is the death of hope that comes as the greatest relief

Losing him was like having a hole shot straight through me, a painful, constant reminder, an absence I could never fill.

moving on means we have to protect ourselves.

Sometimes I felt as if we were all wading around in grief, reluctant to admit to others how far we were waving or drowning.

No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.

Sometimes for our sanity own sanity we just have to look at the bigger picture.

When someone we love is snatched from us, it often feels very hard to make plans.Sometimes people feel like they have lost faith in the future, or they become superstitious.

She was always tired, these days. She put on one of those smiles that wasn’t really a smile at all, and they went on.

Sometimes life is a series of obstacles, a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, she realizes suddenly, it is simply a matter of blind faith.

Real friends were the kind where you pick up where you’d left off, whether it be a week since you’d seen each other or two years.

Life is short, right? We both know that. Well, what if you're my chance?

You live. And you throw yourself into everything and try not to think of the bruises.

You should just keep your mouth shout! It gets very tedious having you make a snarky comment about everything that someone says in this group.

It seemed unfair that despite the fact he could not use them, or feel them, his extremities should cause him so much discomfort.

Kind eyes under all the mascara.

Le Marais?’‘It’s a little district in the centre of Paris. It is full of cobbled streets and teetering apartment blocks and gay men and orthodox Jews and women of a certain age who once looked like Brigitte Bardot. It’s the only place to stay.

Don’t you think it’s actually harder for you . . . to adapt, I mean? Because you’ve done all that stuff?’‘Are you asking me if I wish I'd never done it?’‘I’m just wondering if it would have been easier for you. If you’d led a smaller life. To live like this, I mean.’‘I will never, ever regret the things I've done. Because most days, if you’re stuck in one of these, all you have are the places n your memory that you can go to.’ He smiled. It was tight, as if it cost him. ‘So if you’re asking me would I rather be reminiscing about the view of the caste from the minimart, or that lovely row of shops down off the roundabout, then, no. My life was just fine, thanks.

The triumph of hope over experience.

I had a hundred and seventeen days in which to convince Will Traynor that he had a reason to live.

He dropped his head and kissed her. He kissed her and it was a kiss of utter certainty, the kind of kiss during which monarchs die and whole continents fall without your even noticing. When Jess extricated herself, it was only because she didn't want the children to see her lose the ability to stand.

Be thrown into a new life (or at least thrown with sush force against the life of someone who is like squashed his face against the window) forces you to rethink who you are. Or what causes impression for others

I realized I was afraid of living without him. How is it you have the right to destroy my life, I wanted to demand of him, but I’m not allowed a say in yours?-Lou

A face whose emotions had not yet been battered by experience.

You still don’t get it, Clark, do you?’ I couldhear the smile in his voice. ‘It’s not your choice.

I know this isn’t a conventional love story. I know there are all sorts of reasons I shouldn’t even be saying what I am. But I love you. I do. I knew it when I left Patrick. And I think you might even love me a little bit.

I know we can do this. I know it’s nothow you would have chosen it, but I know I can make you happy. And all I can say is that you make me … you make me into someone I couldn’t even imagine. You make me happy,even when you’re awful. I would rather be with you – even the you that you seem to think is diminished – than with anyone else in the world.

Hannah ran past, beaming. I remember that feeling--when you're a kid and it's your birthday and for one day everyone makes you feel like the most special person in the world.

He dropped his head and kissed her. He kisses her and it was a kiss of utter certainty, the kind of kiss during which monarchs die and whole continents fall without your even noticing.

Its not a matter of giving you a chance. I've watched you these six months becoming a whole different person, someone who is only just beginning to see her possibilities. You have no idea how happy that has made me. I don't want you to be tied to me, to my hospital appointments, to the restrictions on my life. I don't want you to miss out on the things someone else could give you.

Some mistakes... Just have greater consequences than others. But you don't have to let the result of one mistake be the thing that defines you. You, Clark, have the choice not to let that happen.

Because even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you still had your mother or father at your back, you’d be okay. Some deep-rooted part of you would know you were loved. That you deserved to be loved.

I hadn't thought that as well as the obvious fears about money, and your future, losing your job would make you feel inadequate, and a bit useless. That it would be harder to get up in the morning then when you were rudely shocked into consciousness by the alarm. That you might miss the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common with them. Or even that you might find yourself searching for familiar faces as you walked the high street.

You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people any more.It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead.It’s just something you learn to accommodate.Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become … a doughnut instead of a bun

How could I explain to this girl what Will and I had been to each other,the way I felt that no person in the world had ever understood me like he did or ever would again?How could she understand that losing him was like having a hole shot straight through me, a painful, constant reminder, an absence I could never fill?

Because even if the whole world was throwing rocks at you, if you still had your mother or father at your back, you’d be okay.

It's just that the thing you never understand about being a mother, until you are one, is that it is not the grown man - the galumphing, unshaven, stinking, opinionated off-spring - you see before you, with his parking tickets and unpolished shoes and complicated love life. You see all the people he has ever been all rolled up into one.I look at him and see the baby I held in my arms, dewing besotted, unable to believe that I'd created another human being. I see the toddler, reaching for my hand, the schoolboy weeping tears of fury after being bullied  by some other child. I saw the vulnerabilities, the love, the history.

Some mistakes... just have greater consequences than others. But you don't have to let that night be the thing that defines you.

I thought the world had actually ended. I thought nothing good could ever happen again. I thought anything might happen if I wasn't vigilant. I didn't eat. I didn't go out. I didn't want to see anyone. But I survived, Paul. Much to my own surprise, I got through it. And life...well, gradually became livable again.

I stared out of the window at the bright-blue Swiss sky and I told him a story of two people. Two people who shouldn’t have met, and who didn’t like each other much when they did, but who found they were the only two people in the world who could possibly have understood each other. And I told him of the adventures they had, the places they had gone, and the things I had seen that I had never expected to. I conjured for him electric skies and iridescent seas and evenings full of laughter and silly jokes. I drew a world for him, a world far from a Swiss industrial estate, a world in which he was still somehow the person he had wanted to be. I drew the world he had created for me, full of wonder and possibility. I let him know a hurt had been mended in a way that he couldn’t have known, and for that alone there would always be a piece of me indebted to him. And as I spoke I knew these would be the most important words I would ever say and that it was important that they were the right words, that they were not propaganda, an attempt to change his mind, but respectful of what Will had said. I told him something good...

And it was suddenly very simple: There was no choice.

You don't have to let that one thing be the thing that defines you.

It is important not to turn the dead into saints. Nobody can walk in the shadow of a saint.

But I knew very well how the persona you chose to present to the world could be very different from what was inside.I knew how grief could make you behave in ways you couldn’t even begin to understand.

She had the world’s worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.

She is probably slightly too old to pout, but they've been going out a short enough time for it still to be cute.

Your face when you came back from diving that time told me everything; there is a hunger in you, Clark. A fearlessness. You just buried it, like most people do.

I could barely even say Will's name. And listening to their tales of family relationships, of thirty-year marriages, shared houses, lives, children, I felt like a fraud. I had been a carer for someone for six months. I'd loved him, and watched him end his life. How could these strangers possibly understand what Will and I had been to each other during that time? How could I explain the way we had so swiftly understood each other, the shorthand jokes, the blunt truths and raw secrets? How could I convey the way those short months had changed the way I felt about everything? The way he had skewed my world so totally that it made no sense without him in it?

There are normal hours, and then there are invalid hours, when time stalls and slips, when life -real life- seems to exist at one remove.

There are normal hours, and then there are invalid hour, when time stalls and slips, when life -real life- seems to exist at one remove

We were enjoying one of those rare summers of utter freedom – no financial responsibility, no debts, no time owing to anybody.

You´re my son, Ed. You might be idiotic and irresponsible, but it doesn´t make the slightest difference to what I feel for you. I´m pissed off that you could have thought it would

Everyone I've ever met who was worth knowing was a bit different at school. You just need to find your people''Find my people?''Your tribe

The hardest thing about talking to teenagers, I had discovered, was that whatever you said inevitably came across like something an elderly aunt would say at a wedding.

Nobody ever feels they’re doing well with teenagers,' he said. 'I think that’s kind of the point of them.

Nobody ever feels they’re doing well with teenagers,” he said. “I think that’s kind of the point of them.

I just want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress

Nell walks what feels like the length of Paris. She walks through the numbered arrondissements, meandering through a food market, gazing at the glossy produce, both familiar and not at the same time, accepting a plum at a stallholder's urging and then buying a small bag in lieu of breakfast and lunch. She sits on a bench by the Seine, watching the tourist boats go by, and eats three of the plums, thinking of how it felt to hold the tiller, to gaze onto the moonlit waters. She tucks the bag under her arm as if she does this all the time and takes the Metro to a brocante recommended in one of her guidebooks, allowing herself an hour to float among the stalls, picking up little objects that someone once loved, mentally calculating the English prices, and putting them down again. And as she walks, in a city of strangers, her nostrils filled with the scent of street food, her ears filled with an unfamiliar language, she feels something unexpected wash through her. She feels connected, alive.

Nell looks at the label and comes to."Oh, I'd never wear it. I like to buy things on a cost-per-wear basis. This dress would probably work out at like...thirty pounds a wear. No. I couldn't.""You don't ever do something just because it makes you feel good?" The assistant shrugs. "Mademoiselle, you need to spend more time in Paris.