Jennifer Donnelly

I need a boy who thinks with his big head, not his little one. Since they do not exist, I have fashioned my own.

And besides, I couldn't stay at the party. It was too dangerous. I nearly died.""From what?""Boredom.

I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.

But you are a different sort of girl. Not at all what I expected you to be. And this is a different sort of time. And so I am hopeful for all the things you may yet find.

The thing is, you can't ever really know how rotten someone will turn out to be.

Sometimes you have to do wrong to do right.

The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.

Voice is not just the sound that comes from your throat, but the feelings that come from your words.

Murder is not a suitable topic of conversation for a young lady.

And Robespierre, the Incorruptible, who loved us so much he cut off our heads so we would not be troubled by too many thoughts.

Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras keeping them warm.

She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras to keep them warm.

Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?

Because I'm on the phone, Mom!""Fooling around with your friends again! Who is that?""Ahmadinejad.""Oh, my goodness! What is he saying?""That he wants to see Jeezy at the Beacon tonight. Putin's going too. He scalped a ticket from Kim Jong Il. All tha gangstas are going.""Don't be so fresh, young man!""Gotta go," he says to me. "Enemy forces have dropped a Momshell.""Fall back, solider. Over and out.

You can't argue with the dead, no matter what you say, they always have the last word.

They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona's hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing he might do, or say, could. Her grief would run its course, like a fever, and release her when it was spent. He would not shush her or tell her it was God's will and that her da was better off. That was rubbish and they both knew it. When something hurt as bad as this, you had to let it hurt. There were no shortcuts.