Isaac Marion is an American writer. He is best known as the best-selling author of the "zombie romance" novel Warm Bodies.
You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it's your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.
But I'm not afraid of the skeletons in Julie's closet. I look forward to meeting the rest of them, looking them hard in the eye, giving them firm, bone-crunching handshakes.
I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.
. . . wanting change is step one, but step two is taking it.
Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is. . . new.
We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.
It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she's been hurt, by me and by others, throughout the entire arc of her life. I barely remember pain, but when I see it in her I feel it in myself, in disproportionate measure. it creeps into my eyes, stinging, burning.
I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
You might say that death has relaxed me.
But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries. ’ ‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next. ’ ‘But can we choose that?’ ‘I don’t know. ’ ‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’ ‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.
Came to. . . see you. ” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye. ” “Don't know why you. . . say good-bye. I say. . . hello. ” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—
Here we are on the road. We must be going somewhere.
There’s not really such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people, there’s just like…humanity. And it gets broken sometimes.
I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes. My friends have to keep reminding me how crazy my life has become, and then it hits me fresh and I just slap my forehead and think, "Wait, what. . . ?"
It frustrates and fascinates me that we'll never know for sure, that despite the best efforts of historians and scientists and poets, there are some things we'll just never know. What the first song sounded like. How it felt to see the first photograph. Who kissed the first kiss, and if it was any good.