One Peace Books

Mornings seem forced to me. So much sadness rises up, I can't bear it. I hate it, I really do.

The truth is that I secretly love what seems to be my own individuality, and I hope I always will, but fully embodying it is another matter.

There are really good things about human beings. I mean, it's humans who discovered the beauty of flowers, and humans who admire them.

Heaven forbid if beauty were to have substance. Genuine beauty is always meaningless, without virtue. It goes without saying.

If someday I could live a military life, and be disciplined harshly, then I just might be capable of being a self-contained, beautiful daughter.

The body had no connection to my mind, it developed on its own accord, which was unbearable and bewildering.

In time, when we became adults, we might look back on this pain and loneliness as a funny thing, perfectly ordinary, but—but how were we expected to get by, to get through this interminable period of time until that point when we were adults?

It's not as though we only care about the present. If you were to point to a faraway mountain and say, If you can make it there, it's a pretty good view, I'd see that there's not an ounce of untruth to what you tell us. But when you say, Well, bear with it just a little longer, if you can make it to the top of that mountain, you'll have done it, you are ignoring the fact that we are suffering from a terrible stomachache—right now. Surely one of you is mistaken to let us go on this way. You're the one who is to blame.

the beauty of your eyes is the best thing about people

I'll read one book and be completely wild about it—I'll trust it, I'll assimilate it, I'll sympathize with it, I'll try to make it a part of my life. Then, I'll read another book and, instantly, I'll switch over to that one. The sly ability to steal someone else's experience and recreate it as if it were my own