Before I die, I want to at least have saved Cascade. Once all the crowns are found, then I will tell her. I want something good to die for. . . to make it beautiful to live.
Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.
If she spoke, she would tell him the truth: she was not okay at all, but horribly empty, now that she knew what it was like to be filled.
Good writing is remembering detail. Most people want to forget. Don't forget things that were painful or embarrassing or silly. Turn them into a story that tells the truth.
It takes one to tell, and two to missunderstand.
How many men with a microphone can tell you what he loves the most?
Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.
There was still something I could do: I could tell the world.