Challenger Deep Neal Shusterman Quotes

Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

I used to be afraid of dying. Now I’m afraid of not living. There’s a difference. We go through life planning for a future, but sometimes that future never comes.

The scariest thing of all is never knowing what you're suddenly going to believe.

And when the abyss looks into you - and it will - may you look back unflinching.

You see demons in the eyes of the world, and the world sees a bottomless pit in yours.

Forget solar energy—if you could harness denial, it would power the world for generations.

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when 'should be' gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because 'what could have been' is much more highly regarded than 'what should have been.' Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

The only thing you have for measuring what's real is your mind . . . so what happens when your mind becomes a pathological liar?

They all think medicine should be magic, and they become mad at me when it's not.

It's a curse to see all that might happen but never know what will.

What we perceive as art, the universe perceives as directions.

When the truth hurts we always hate the messenger

Nothing awful is without its beautiful side.

And I think, if thoughts are worth a penny, how much less promises must be worth. Especially the ones you're likely to break.

There are times I feel like I'm the kid screaming at the bottom of the well, and my dog runs off to pee on trees instead of getting help.

You'll find in life, Caden, that many decisions are made by morons in high places.

And you know the darkness beyond despair, just as intimately as you know the soaring heights. Because in this and all universes, there is balance. You can't have the one without facing the other. And sometimes you think you can take it because the joy is worth the despair, and sometimes you know you can't take it and how did you ever think you could?

Everything feels right with the world... ...and the sad thing is that I know it's a dream. I know it must soon end, and when it does I will be thrust awake into a place where either I'm broken, or the world is broken.

To name her is to sink her,” he told me. “That which we name takes greater weight than the sea it displaces. Ask any shipwreck.

Everyone needs someone to blame.

So what happens when your universe begins to get off balance, and you don’t have any experience with bringing it back to center? All you can do is fight a losing battle, waiting for those walls to collapse, and your life to become one huge mystery ashtray.

Don Quixote - the famous literary madman - fought windmills. People think he saw giants when he looked at them, but those of us who've been there know the truth. He saw windmills, just like everyone else - but he believed they were giants. The scariest thing of all is never knowing what you're suddenly going to believe.

I marveled that people could live so close - that you could literally be surrounded by thousands who were only inches away - and yet be completely isolated. I found it hard to imagine. It's not so hard for me to imagine anymore.

I was using," I tell her. "And God was my drug dealer." She doesn't get it. "Tripping on my own brain chemicals. The dope I was doing was already inside.

There are many ways in which the "check brain" light illuminates, but here's the screwed-up part: the driver can't see it. It's like the light is positioned in the backseat cup holder, beneath an empty can of soda that's been there for a month. No one sees it but the passengers—and only if they're really looking for it, or when the light gets so bright and so hot that it melts the can, and sets the whole car on fire.

I begin to wonder if David was like me. Seeing monsters everywhere and realizing there aren't enough slingshots in the world to get rid of them.

We always look for the signs we missed when something goes wrong. We become like detectives trying to solve a murder, because maybe if we uncover the clues, it gives us some control. Sure, we can’t change what happened, but if we can string together enough clues, we can prove that whatever nightmare has befallen us, we could have stopped it, if only we had been smart enough. I suppose it’s better to believe in our own stupidity than it is to believe that all the clues in the world wouldn’t have changed a thing.

There are two things you know. One: You were there. Two: You couldn’t have been there.

I know exactly what he means. I had overheard Poirot talking to my parents. He was using words like "psychosis" and "schizophrenic". Words that people feel they have to whisper, or not repeat at all. The Mental-Illness-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Preventative measures are the bane of spontaneous action,” he said. “I prefer the glory of heroism amidst panic.

I still can't figure out if it's bravery or cowardice to take your own life. I can't figure out whether it's being selfish, or selfless. It is the ultimate act of letting go of oneself, or a cheap act of self-possession? People say a failed attempt is a cry for help. I guess that's true if the person meant it to be unsuccessful. But then, I guess most failed attempts aren't entirely sincere, because, let's face it, if you want to off yourself, there are plenty of ways to make sure it works.

I think it’s outrageously cruel to keep a puzzle that they know is missing a single piece.

Keep me warm. I have no warmth of my own- only what the sun brings me, and the sun is halfway around the world. Keep me warm.

Sometimes there are moments when we objectively face the never, and it overwhelms us.

If pennies become worthless, does that devalue our thoughts to less than nothing?

The pain of knowing is killing me more than killing me would kill me, so I jump just to end it.

Exactly,” says the parrot. “WHY are you here? Or should I ask ‘Why are YOU here?’ Or ‘Why are you HERE?

It's kind of like religion. It gives us comfort to believe we have defined something that is, by its very nature, indefinable. As to whether or not we've gotten it right, well, it's all a matter of faith.

I’m evolving, is the thing; I’m a god becoming a constellation.’ ‘The constellations are mostly demigods,’ I point out. ‘And they didn’t get to be constellations until after they died.’ He laughs at that, and says, ‘Death is a small sacrifice to become immortal.

The result leaves my brain somewhere in orbit beyond Saturn, where it can't bother anyone, especially me.

The weird thing is, hearing stories like this makes me feel a kind of kinship with the Almighty, because it proves that even God has psychotic episodes.

There are books I will never finish reading, games I will never finish playing, movies that I’ve started and will never see the end of. Ever. Sometimes there are moments when we objectively face the never, and it overwhelms us.

I always take credit for my acts of cruelty. To do otherwise is cowardice.

You see demons in the eyes of the world, and the world sees bottomless pit in yours.

It’s more than that now. I can’t tell the difference between what’s part of me and what’s not.

You don't so much sleep as borrow eight hours from death.

I feel her wave of worry like a patio heater - faint and ineffective, but constant.

They want to do something - anything - to help me. Anything to change my situation. But they are as powerless as I am. The two of them are in a lifeboat, together, but so alone. The boat leaks, and they must bail in tandem to keep themselves afloat. It must be exhausting. The terrible truth of their helplessness is almost too much to bear. I wish I would take them on board, but even if they could reach us, the captain would never allow it. Right now it sucks to be me - but until now, it never occurred to me that it also sucks to be them.

Elasticity is a fundamental principle of perception,

I'm leaping off a cliff only to discover I can fly... and then realizing there's nowhere to land. Ever. That's what's going on.

That which we name takes greater weight than the sea it displaces. Ask any shipwreck.

But it’s not going to happen today—and there is a deep, abiding comfort in that. Deep enough to carry me through till tomorrow.

I conclude it would be a good place to be alone with my thoughts, but I should already know that my thoughts are never alone.

You come to know the pattern of your particular chemical bombardment. The numbness, the lack of focus, the artificial sense of peace when the meds first hit your system. The growing paranoia and anxiety as they wane. The worse you feel, the more you can get into the treacherous waters of your own thoughts. The greater the threat from the inside, the more you long for those waters, as if you've grown accustomed to the terrible tentacles that seek to draw you into their crushing embrace.

We are, however, creatures of containment. We want all things in life packed into boxes that we can label. But just because we have the ability to label it, doesn't mean we really know what's in the box. It's kind of religion. It gives us comfort to believe we have defined something that is, by its very nature, indefinable. As to whether or not we've gotten it right, well, it's all a matter of faith.

But just because we have the ability to label it, doesn't mean we really know what's in the box.

I will always be there on the horizon,' I tell her. And with infinite sorrow, she says, 'I believe that. But sadly I am no longer looking out of that window.

I don’t think God have us this anymore than he gives little kids cancer or makes poor people lottery winners.... if anything, he gives us courage to deal.

Epiphanies are never convenient, and often arrive too late.

This is my third time here," she confides in me. "My third episode." "Episode." "That's what they call it." "More like miniseries.

You're supposed to put your coin in the slot and let it go. It spins round and round the big yellow funnel for like a minute, making a rhythmic whirring sound that gets tighter and tighter, more intense, more desperate as it spirals closer to the hole. It keeps spinning faster - all that kinetic energy forced down the neck of the funnel until it's blaring like an alarm - then it falls silent as it drops into the black abyss of the funnel. I'm that coin on its way down, screaming in the neck of the funnel, with nothing but my own kinetic energy and centrifugal force keeping me from dropping into darkness.

Our bodies form a symbol, I think, as powerful as one of Hal's - and it occurs to me that the most meaningful symbols of all must be based on all the different ways two people can embrace.

We do, you know. Find ourselves. Although it’s a little harder each time. Days pass. Weeks. Then we squeeze ourselves back into the skin of who we were before all this. We put the pieces back together and get on with things.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because “what could have been” is much more highly regarded than “what should have been.” Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

Sometimes the darkness beyond is not glorious at all, it truly is an absolute absence of light. A clawing, needy tar that pulls you down. You drown but you don't. It turns you to lead so you sink faster in its viscous embrace. It robs you of hope and even the memory of hope. It makes you think you've always felt like this, and there's no place to go but down, where it slowly, ravenously digests your will, distilling it into the ebony crude of nightmares. And you know the darkness beyond despair, just as intimately as you know the soaring heights. Because in this and all universes, there is balance. You can't have the one without facing the other. And sometimes you think you can take it because the joy is worth the despair, and sometimes you know you can't take it and how did you ever think you could? And there is the dance; strength and weakness, confidence and desolation.

Indeed, nothing awful is without its beautiful side.

Pain is weakness leaving the body.” We

while it’s five in the morning here, it’s also five in the evening somewhere in China—proving that incompatible truths make perfect sense when seen with global perspective.

Have you ever considered how lonely it is to be the girl on a pedestal?

Each day the sea is exactly the same. We seem no closer, and no farther from anything.

When the truth hurts, we always hate the messenger.

I feel as if my entire life depends on my holding it together.

I break eye contact, then realize you must never break eye contact with the school counselor, or she’ll find something deeply psychological in your downward glance. I force eye contact again.

I feel everything," Calliope tells me as I rest in her metallic arms one night, suspended above an easy sea. "I feel not only the sails, but the hull. Not only the ship, but the sea. Not only the sea, but the sky. And not only the sky, but the stars. I feel everything.

Today you're in a hospital. Or at least this morning. This hour. This minute. Where you'll be three minutes from now is anyone's guess. You've begun to notice, though, that, bit by bit the sense of being outside yourself has diminished with each passing day. A critical mass is reached, and now your soul collapses in upon itself. You're back inside the vessel of your body. Just one. Just you. Just an individual. Me.

I shouldn’t be here,” I appeal to the captain, wondering if I’ve told him this before. “I have midterms and papers due and dirty clothes I never picked up from my bedroom floor, and I have friends, lots of friends.

There’s no telling how far down it goes,” the captain says, the left side of his mustache twitching like the tail of a rat. “Fall into that unknowable abyss, and you’ll be counting the days before you reach bottom.

You are not the first and you will not be the last,

Ból to znak, że słabość opuszcza ciało.

Compound eyes confound lies.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself," the captain announces from the helm, "and the occasional man-eating monster.

We're all screwed," says our morale officer

The hiss of waves breaking at her ankles is a gentle sigh, as if the sea itself has found lasting contentment.

I should already know that my thoughts are never alone.

My artwork isn't evolving, it's deconstructing, and I don't know why.

The two of them playact with each other, pretending to be cordial, but only so it will make the final betrayal even sweeter.

My father has the irritating habit of saying the same thing whenever something bad happens. “This, too, shall pass,” he says. What annoys me is that he’s always right about it. What annoys me even more is that he always reminds me later when it does pass, as a smug “I told you so.” He doesn’t say it to me anymore because Mom told him it was trite. Maybe it is, but I find that I say it to myself now. No matter how bad I’m feeling, I make myself say it, even if I’m not ready to believe it. This, too, shall pass. It’s amazing how little things like that can make a big difference.

And you know the darkness beyond despair, just as intimately as you know the soaring heights. Because in this and all universes, there is balance. You can't have the one without facing the other. And sometimes you think you can take it because the joy is worth the despair, and sometimes you know you can't take it and how did you ever think you could? And there is the dance; strength and weakness, confidence and desolation.

She was deemed an unfit mother, in spite of the fact that she goes to the gym every day,' Hal once told me. . . .Beautiful people are often forgiven for many things--and maybe she's gotten through life that way, but I don't forgive her for anything--and I don't even know what awful things she's done other than showing a lack of parental fitness.

I suppose even a simple slogan can be twisted into whatever shape we want, like a balloon animal—we can even make it loop back around on itself, becoming a noose. In the end, the measure of who we are can be seen in the shapes of our balloon animals.

the voices are so persuasive, you don’t know what’s real and what’s not. You know the voices aren’t talking into your ears, but they’re not exactly in your head either. They seem to call to you from another place that you’ve accidentally tapped into, like a cell phone pulling in a conversation in some foreign language—yet somehow you understand it. They linger there on the edge of your consciousness like the things you hear just as you’re waking up, before the dream collapses under the crushing weight of the real world. But what if the dream doesn’t go away when you wake up? And what if you lose the ability to tell the difference?

Our hope is that Challenger Deep will comfort those who have been there, letting them know that they are not alone. We also hope that it will help others to empathize, and to understand what it’s like to sail the dark, unpredictable waters of mental illness.

she says, “A penny for your thoughts?” I don’t feel like sharing my thoughts, so instead I challenge the question. “Really? Is that all they’re worth? A penny?” She sighs. “It’s just an expression, Caden.” “Well, find out when the expression was thought up, and then adjust for inflation.” She shakes her head. “Only you would go there, Caden.” Then she leaves me to stew in thoughts I refuse to sell.

So what happens when your universe begins to get off balance, and you don’t have any experience with bringing it back to center? All you can do is fight a losing battle, waiting for those walls to collapse, and your life to become one huge mystery ashtray. 19. Deconstructing

The things I feel cannot be put into words, or if they can, the words are in no language anyone can understand. My emotions are talking in tongues. Joy spins into anger spins into fear then into amused irony, like leaping from a plane, arms wide, knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that you can fly, then discovering you can't, and not only don't you have a parachute, but you don't have any clothes on, and people below all have binoculars and are laughing as you plummet to a highly embarrassing down.

He will always be waiting, I realize. He will never go away. And in time, I may find myself his first mate whether I want to or not, journeying to points exotic so that I might make another dive, and another, and another. And maybe one day I'll dive so deep that the Abyssal Serpent will catch me, and I'll never find my way back. No sense in denying that such things happen. But it's not going to happen today—and there is a deep, abiding comfort in that. Deep enough to carry me through till tomorrow.

If you think about it, the public perception of funky brain chemistry has been as varied and weird as the symptoms, historically speaking. If I had been born a Native American in another time, I might have been lauded as a medicine man. My voices would have been seen as the voices of ancestors imparting wisdom. I would have been treated with great mystical regard. If I had lived in biblical times, I might have been seen as a prophet, because, let’s face it, there are really only two possibilities: either prophets were actually hearing God speaking to them, or they were mentally ill. I’m sure if an actual prophet surfaced today, he or she would receive plenty of Haldol injections, until the sky opened up and the doctors were slapped silly by the Hand of God. In the Dark Ages my parents would have sent for an exorcist, because I was clearly possessed by evil spirits, or maybe even the Devil himself. And if I lived in Dickensian England, I would have been thrown into Bedlam, which is more than just a description of madness. It was an actual place—a “madhouse” where the insane were imprisoned in unthinkable conditions. Living in the twenty-first century gives a person a much better prognosis for treatment, but sometimes I wish I’d lived in an age before technology. I would much rather everyone think I was a prophet than some poor sick kid.

[...] biorę teraz cztery proszki dwa razy dziennie. Jeden, żeby wyłączyć moje myśli, a drugi, żeby wyłączyć moje działania. Trzeci, żeby zapobiec skutkom ubocznym dwóch pierwszych i czwarty, żeby ten trzeci nie czuł się samotny. Rezultat jest taki, że mój mózg ląduje gdzieś na orbicie za Saturnem, gdzie nie będzie nikomu przeszkadzał, zwłaszcza mnie

Centering, however, is easier said than done. This I learned from a ceramics class I once took. The teacher made throwing a pot look easy, but the thing is, it takes lots of precision and skill. You slam the ball of clay down in the absolute center of the pottery wheel, and with steady hands you push your thumb into the middle of it, spreading it wider a fraction of an inch at a time. But every single time I tried to do it, I only got so far before my pot warped out of balance, and every attempt to fix it just made it worse, until the lip shredded, the sides collapsed, and I was left with what the teacher called “a mystery ashtray,” which got hurled back into the clay bucket. So what happens when your universe begins to get off balance, and you don’t have any experience with bringing it back to center? All you can do is fight a losing battle, waiting for those walls to collapse, and your life to become one huge mystery ashtray.

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when “should be” gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because “what could have been” is much more highly regarded than “what should have been.” Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.