Benjamin Alire Saenz Quotes
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We all fight our own private wars.
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Some boys... Are perfect shits. & other boys are very, very beautiful.
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How strange to have a body. Sometimes it felt that way. Strange.
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Maybe that’s why I felt sad and empty—because I’d missed him all my life.
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Ari, it’s time you stopped running.
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This is the way I see it: if you get to know yourself really well, you might discover that deep down inside you’re just a dirty, disgusting, and selfish piece of shit. What if my heart is all rotted out and corrupted? What about that? What am I suppose to do with that information? Just tell me that.
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And prayer? How could you pray to a God you wanted to hit?
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The thing about artists is that they tell stories. I mean, some paintings are like novels.
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Being on the verge of seventeen could be harsh and painful and confusing. Being on the verge of seventeen really suck.
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Why do we smile? Why do we laugh? Why do we feel alone? Why are we sad and confused? Why do we read poetry? Why do we cry when we see a painting? Why is there a riot in the heart when we love? Why do we feel shame? What is that thing in the pit of your stomach called desire?
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I think writing books is a way for me to work out certain issues. I write about what matters to me, always.
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Euphoric memory. That’s what Adam called it. Some of you guys even get high remembering.
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The only class that I was having a hard time with was my art elective. I couldn’t draw worth a damn. I was pretty good at trees. I sucked at drawing faces. But in art class, all you had to do was try. I was getting an A for work. But not for talent. The story of my life.
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And the hurt was so deep that it was way beyond tears and so their faces were dry.
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Somehow I’d hoped that this would be the summer that I would discover that I was alive. The world my mom and dad said was out there waiting for me. That world doesn’t actually exist.
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No extra credit for being decent human beings.
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Reading my own words embarrassed the hell out of me. I mean, what a pendejo. I had to be the world's biggest loser, writing about hair, and stuff about my body. No wonder I stopped keeping a journal. It was like keeping a record of my own stupidity.
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The sky was angry and shouting, and it reminded Andrés of how Mando and his father had shouted at each other and had drowned out the sound of love.
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Just because I'm playing on the other team doesn't mean I'm this pathetic human being who's begging to be loved.
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I could have asked my father lots of questions. I could have. But there was something in his face and eyes and in his crooked smile that prevented me from asking. I guess I didn’t believe he wanted me to know who he was. So I just collected clues. Watching my father read that book was another clue in my collection. Some day all the clues would come together. And I would solve the mystery of my father.
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And every time I did spectacularly well in my classes, and I'm here to tell you that I did spectacularly well, I could always see the look of surprise on my professors' faces. You don't think I noticed? What you saw on Dave's face, I saw every damned day of my academic career. So what, Andres? I wanted to do something, to be something - and I did it. I don't think I deserve a medal, and I don't think I'm particularly special. I wanted to do something, and I figured out a way to do it.
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Change is overrated.
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Breakfast seemed to be a good time for throwing your emotions around. Jodie said that at this place emotions were like Frisbees – people just tossed them around all day long like they were at a park.
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I bet you could sometimes find all the mysteries of the universe in someone's hand.