Quotes About Expression

Everyone on this island wants something kept quiet. I want to roar

Fuck Tris. I would give body parts to have a guy write something like that for me. My kidney? Oh, both of them? Here, Nick, they're yours—just write more for me. I'll give you a start: boy in punk club asks strange girl to be his girlfriend for five minutes, girl kisses boy, boy kisses back, boy then meets girl—what did you notice about this girl? Nick, let's hear some lyrics. Please? Ready. Set. Go.

Sofia was miffed. And if American girls make being miffed a sweet-and-sour emotion, European girls always manage to add an undercurrent of murder to it.

Because I hadn't known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.

The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.

One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness. But I appreciate your concern.

When I was old enough to read and write, my parents gave me an eraser board that I kept in my room at all times. The idea was that when frustrated, I, Lily, should write down words on the board to express my feelings instead of letting she-devil Shrilly express them through shrieking. It was supposed to be a therapeutic tool.

My hands were starting to shake a little. Because I hadn't known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.

But whether or not you are here, you are here—because these words are for you, and they wouldn't exist if you weren't here in some way. This notebook is a strange instrument—the player doesn't know the music until it's being played.

Maybe the simple diagnosis of either hetero or homo is misleading. Maybe there's just sexuality, and it's bendable and unpredictable, like a circus performer

Ouch. Cursing—not so dashing.

People come to New York to be different

The way you're singing in your sleep The way you look before you leap The strange illusions that you keep You don't know But I'm noticing The way your touch turns into arcs The way you slide into the dark The beating of my open heart You don't know But I'm noticing And I'm moved, it's so beautiful.

There are certain things a girl just knows, like that a fourth minute on a punk song is a bad, bad idea

Then again. Maybe the simple diagnosis of either hetero or homo is misleading. Maybe there's just sexuality, and it's bendable and unpredictable, like a circus performer

Wiis? Wiii? What is the plural?)

As if her language is not enough indication, there is also the matter of her Hot Topic mallrat outfit: short black leather skirt with buckles up the side, mass-produced "vintage" Ramones T-shirt, and piss-yellow leggings with some horrible pair of pink patent-leather shoes.

I don't think we should ever try to meet again; there's such freedom in that. Instead, let our words continue to meet. (See next postcard.)

You can tell a lot about a person from the pages he or she chooses to journal on—I was strictly a college-ruled man myself, having no talent for illustration and a microscopic scrawl that made wide-ruled seem roomy.

Because I'm so tired of worshipping breakable things. Because I wanted to see the impulse through. Because I wanted to see the look on their faces. Because I wanted to do something that I've kept inside of me so they could see what's been inside me all this time.

But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave them to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest--the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.

Dev's out to pierce the pierced, tattoo the tattooed, and have his way with the messy punk boys who came to our shows not knowing they'll end up wanting to mess around with the guy challenging How big is your cocker spaniel? into the mic.

and everything about me goes from crying out to just plain crying

Let me begin afresh. Perhaps, this time, to tell the truth. For in the biting hush of ink on paper, where truth ought raise its head and speak without fear, I have long lied.