Casper Love Quotes

My name is Abbey. And I'm in love with a ghost.

Casper didn't give me direction for what to do if somebody I used to really like-like, somebody who would be somebody good to love, somebody right, somebody who understood about me, turned out to not have the same ideas about me.

my hope is that you’ll join me in choosing a text of your own to treat as sacred—something you already love, that you already find yourself turning to again and again. We can all benefit from the ancient practices of sacred reading.

What is history if not one endless assault on love?

I love technology—but I feel like I’m constantly responding to everyone and not really responding to myself.

There was no Mamaw to comfort me. But there were my two dogs on the floor, and there was the love of my life lying in bed. Tomorrow I would go to work, take the dogs to the park, buy groceries with Usha, and make a nice dinner. It was everything I ever wanted. So I patted Casper's head and went back to sleep

He was the old breed of Filipino, almost extinct, who required that he deserve what he received; who would feel guilt, not only shame or embarrassment; who accounted for each day in the office and observed public trust as if it were a word of God. But even God was nowhere. The new theology proclaimed him dead. Long live Man! Love live Me!

What have I done, Obie?" Obie flung his hand in the air, the gesture encompassing all the rotten things that had occur under Archie's command, at Archie's direction. The ruined kids, the capsized hopes. Renault last fall and poor Tubs Casper and all the others including even the faculty. Like Brother Eugene. "You know what you've done, Archie. I don't need to draw up a list-" "You blame me for everything, right, Obie? You and Carter and all the others. Archie Costello, the bad guy. The villain. Archie, the bastard. Trinity would be such a beautiful place without Archie Costello. Right, Obie? But it's not me, Obie, it's not me...." "Not you?" Obie cried, fury gathering in his throat, his chest, his guts. "What the hell do you mean, not you? This could have been a beautiful place to be, Archie. A beautiful time for all of us. Christ, who else, if not you?" "Do you really want to know who?" "Okay, who then?" Impatient with his crap, the old Archie crap. "It's you, Obie. You and Carter and Bunting and Leon and everybody. But especially you, Obie. Nobody forced you to do anything, buddy. Nobody made you join the Vigils. Nobody twisted your arm to make you secretary of the Vigils. Nobody pain you to keep a notebook with all that crap about the students, all their weaknesses, soft points. The notebook made your job easier, didn't it, Obie? And what was your job? Finding the victims. You found them, Obie. You found Renault and Tubs Casper and Gendreau-the first one, remember, when we were sophomores?-how you loved it all, didn't you Obie?" Archie flicked a finger against the metal of the car, and the ping was like a verbal exclamation mark. "Know what, Obie? You could have said no anytime, anytime at all. But you didn't...." Archie's voice was filled with contempt, and he pronounced Obie's name as if it were something to be flushed down a toilet. "Oh, I'm an easy scapegoat, Obie. For you and everybody else at Trinity. Always have been. But you had free choice, buddy. Just like Brother Andrew always says in Religion. Free choice, Obie, and you did the choosing....

We don't have to know someone's story to love them well. It should be enough to remember that they have a story, just as we do.

God's love isn't contingent on what we bring to the table. It simply is.

God doesn't love us in spite of who we are, God loves us for who we are.

When did we forget that we don't have to earn God's love, because we already have it? When did we stop relating to each other as human beings? Somewhere between childhood and adulthood we stopped believing that love is something to be accepted - no strings attached.

When did we forget that we don't have to earn God's love, because we alreadg have it? When did we stop relating to each other as human beings? Somewhere between childhood and adulthood we stopped believing that love is something to be accepted - no strings attached.

I had no idea I needed to not just be told God loves me, but to believe it.

She remains intent on renovating the old, historic house her great-aunt left her and giving it a new life as a B&B.

Man, you gotta get in that,” State said, gaining a punch to the gut from my sister. “He’s right. I can see the hard-on you have already,” Casper said. “Dude, quit looking at my junk,” I stated, covering it with my hands. Casper scoffed. “There ain’t much there to look at, which is why all the women jump on this Anthony man over you any day.

Anyone that makes a living by tearing down the work of others is shameful.

In Group, Casper doesn't like us to say cut or cutting or burn or stab. She says it doesn't matter what you do or how you do it: it's all the same. You could drink, slice, do meth, snort coke, burn, cut, stab, slash, rip out your eyelashes, or fuck till you bleed and it's all the same thing: self-harm. She says: whether someone has hurt you or made you feel bad or unworthy or unclean, rather than taking the rational step of realizing that person is an asshole or a psycho and should be shot or strung up and you should stay the fuck away from them, instead we internalize our abuse and begin to blame and punish ourselves and weirdly, once you start cutting or burning or fucking because you feel so shitty and unworthy, your body starts to release this neat-feeling shit called endorphins and you feel so fucking high the world is like cotton candy at the best and most colorful state fair in the world, only bloody and stuffed with infection. But the fucked-up part is once you start self-harming, you can never not be a creepy freak, because your whole body is now a scarred and charred battlefield and nobody likes that on a girl, nobody will love that, and so all of us, every one, is screwed, inside and out. Wash, rinse, fucking repeat.

How long can we close our hearts to the despised and dispossessed? What are our slums, our penitentiaries, and our refugee camps if not a reflection of our own lovelessness?” from the novel Hotel Noir