37 ordspråk av Jodi Picoult

Jodi Picoult

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Hvis noen beskrives som «sexy», handler det om fysisk attraksjon; hvis de beskrives som «pe𝗑ig», handler det om hele viben deres. Just because a person didn't admit that something had changed didn't mean it hadn't happened.

In the wake of a disaster, the last thing you needed to do was set off another bomb; instead, you walked through the rubble and told yourself that it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked.

You'd think someone who'd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside.

What if love wasn't the act of finding what you were missing but the give-and-take that made you both match?

Change is a funny thing. We never are quite sure what we are becoming or even why. Then one day we look at ourselves and wonder who we are and how we got that way. Only one thing about change remains constant...it is always painful.

It's crazy, right? To love someone who's hurt you?
It's crazier to think that someone who hurts you loves you.

They were at different places in the same relationship and like anything that's out of alighment, they were destined to crash sooner or later.

It was a little like a scar on a polished wooden table--you'd try to see the rest of the gleaming surface, but your eyes and your fingers would be drawn to the pitted part, the one thing that kept it from being perfect.

There was a fine line between love and hate, you heard that cliche all the time. But no one told you that the moment you crossed it would be the one you least expected. You'd fall in love and crack open a secret door to let your soul mate in. You just never expected such closeness, one day, to feel like an intrusion.

Hope was a pathological part of puberty, like acne and surging hormones. You might sound cynical to the world, but that was just a defense mechanism, cover-up coating a zit, because it was too embarrassing to admit that in spite of the bum deals you kept getting, you hadn't completely given up.

She wondered how many hours it had been since she'd talked out loud. If you didn't use your voice, ever, would it eventually shrivel up and dry away? Was there a natural selection involved in not speaking up?

The catch was this: Power always involved a loss of humanity.

Betrayal was a stone beneath the mattress of the bed you shared, something you felt digging into you no matter how you shifted position. What was the point of being able to forgive, when deep down, you both had to admit you'd never forget?

The process of growing up was nothing more than figuring out what doors hadn't yet been slammed in your face.

It was that she truly believed you could be fourteen when you learned how love could change the speed your blood ran through you, how it made you dream in kaleidosocope color.

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Linkene lenger ned har ikke blitt oversatt till norsk. Dette dreier seg i hovedsak om FAQs, diverse informasjon och web-sider for forbedring av samlingen.

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