Hannah Baker Quotes

Soul Alone by Hannah Baker I meet your eyes you don't even see me You hardly respond when I whisper hello Could be my soul mate two kindred spirits Maybe we're not I guess we'll never know My own mother you carried me in you Now you see nothing but what I wear People ask you how I'm doing You smile and nod don't let it end there Put me underneath God's sky and know me don't just see me with your eyes Take away this mask of flesh and bone and See me for my soul alone

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo. No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests. I hope you’re ready, because i’m about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you’re listening to theses tapes, you’re one of the reasons why. Now, why would a dead girl lie?

I can't believe I just heard the last words I'll ever hear from Hannah Baker. "I'm sorry." Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I'm sorry, I'm going to think of her.

No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people - Hannah Baker

Hello boys and girls, Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo. No return engagements, no encore. And this time? Absolutely no requests.

Hey, it's Hannah. Hannah Baker.

You've heard of the butterfly effect, right? That if a butterfly flaps its wings at just the right time in just the right place. It can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away. It's chaos theory, but see, chaos theory isn't exactly about chaos. It's about how a tiny change in a big system can affect everything.

Hannah searches the clouds, the gulls, the sun. She wants to leave and she wants to stay. She wants to raise her hand to the heavens and command that everything top, that time stills, that the rules and the laws retract their grip so nature can have her way. Hannah wants to sit up off her towel and look across her friend's lined-up bodies, frozen in time beneath the sky, and she wants to pull Baker out of their midst, out of time, and walk with her along the shoreline, following the infinite ocean, nothing moving on the whole green earth except for the two of them and the water and the sky.

She sets a hand on the cold sand and pushes herself forward until her lips meet Baker's with the delicate touch of tree leaves. And there on the beach, with the sand, the sky, and the water as their witnesses, Baker kisses her back, and Hannah hopes desperately that the crashing of the waves is a celebration rather than a condemnation.

She'd ask him to stand in her kitchen when Baker came over to hang out. She'd have him witness Baker's laughter, her smile, her kind heart, her vulnerability. Baker wouldn't see him, but he would see everything: the goodness of her heart and the light in her eyes. And afterwards, Hannah would ask him, 'How could I not love her?

Baker doesn’t catch her eye or smile at her, and every joke or remark Hannah says to the others seems to materialize from a scared, hollow place inside of her.

I hurt you," Baker cries. "I hurt the one person I love more than anything else in the world." The swelling in Hannah's throat threatens to explode. Her sinuses prickle; her body rushes with uncontrollable feeling. "I hurt you, Han. I hurt you," Baker says, her body convulsing. The sobs burst out of Hannah's throat. "Yeah," she cries, choking on the word, hating that she needs to release it. "Yeah, you did. You hurt me. You really hurt me." Baker's face contorts with anguish. Her chin trembles; her mouth gaps around shuddering breaths. Her eyes bleed with agony. "I'm so-" she heaves. "I'm so-" "But Baker," Hannah says, touching a hand to her tears, "you also saved me." Baker's face screws up again. She heaves with more sobs, placing a hand over her ribs. "You saved me, too," she cries.

How poetic of you. I’ll put it in my bio. Halle Jacobs: Aspiring author. Professional people pleaser. Calm like a well-fed panda.” “Halle Jacobs: Actual author. Excellent baker. Calm like a well-fed panda. Best ass in LA.

They ride over pebbles and patches of dusk-colored sunlight, underneath the spread arms of the live oaks and the promise of their green leaves, past houses full of people and rules and prayers and magic. Hannah looks at Baker, and Baker extends her hand outward into the space between them, holding it palm-up for Hannah to take, right there in the heart of the garden.

Baker’s hands wander over Hannah’s hips and around to her

wE'rE aLL DePrEsSeD aNd sUiCiDaL, wE'rE jUsT aLL iNdENiAL

When you mess with one part of a person's life, you're messing with their entire life. Everything... affects everything.

We almost bumped into each other. But your eyes were down so you didn't know it was me. And together we said it. "I'm sorry." Then you looked up. You saw me. And there, in your eyes, what was it? Sadness? Pain? You moved around and tried pushing your hair away from your face. Your fingernails were painted dark blue. I watched you walk down the long stretch of hallway. I stood there and watched you disappear. Forever.

At the front of the room, facing the students, will be the desk of Mr. porter. He'll be the last to receive a package with no return address. And in the middle of the room, one desk to the left, will be the desk of Hannah Baker. Empty. -pg 4

How many times did I stand right here, thinking I would never get a chance with Hannah Baker? I had no idea how she felt about me. No idea who she really was. Instead, I believed what other people said about her. And I was afraid what they might say about me if they knew I liked her.

Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here. Live and in stereo. No return engagements. No encore. And this time, absolutely no requests. I hope you're ready, because I'm about to tell you about the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you're listening to these tapes, you're one of the reasons why. -pg 7

And at some point, the struggle becomes too much - too tiring - and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy . . . or whatever . . . to happen.

You can't stop the future, you can't rewind the past. The only way to learn the secret is to press play.

Lena Baker’s last words were “What I done, I did in self-defense, or I would have been killed myself.”83

And then Baker comes to stand behind her and hugs her around her middle, and suddenly the steam from the pot spreads all over Hannah’s body, settling into the hammock of her torso and finding its way to her ears and fingertips

Hannah, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers to her chest like she had just won the Mrs. Coventry County pageant, found me in an herbalist's tent, rubbing lavender-scented lotion into my palms. I leaned over to her. 'They should name this Eau de Grandmother.

Hannah searches the clouds, the gulls, the sun. She wants to leave and she wants to stay. She wants to raise her hand to the heavens and command that everything stop, that time stills, that the rules and the laws retract their grip so nature can have her way. Hannah wants to sit up off her towel and look across her friend's lined-up bodies, frozen in time beneath the sky, and she wants to pull Baker out of their midst, out of time, and walk with her along the shoreline, following the infinite ocean, nothing moving on the whole green earth except for the two of them and the water and the sky

Right then, in that office, with the realization that no one knew the truth about my life, my thoughts about the world were shaken. Like driving along a bumpy road and losing control of the steering wheel, tossing you—just a tad—off the road. The wheels kick up some dirt, but you’re able to pull it back. Yet no matter how tightly you grip the wheel, no matter how hard you try to drive straight, something keeps jerking you to the side. You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy . . . or whatever . . . to happen.

She knows she should feel excited about her acceptance to Emory and the promise of spring break. She should feel infinite and hopeful, like the growing earth around her. Like the sunlight, which stretches longer each day, asking for one more minute, one more oak tree to shimmer on. Like the late March mornings, which arrive carrying a gentle heat, rocking it back and forth over the pavement in the parking lot, letting it crawl forth over the grass and the tree roots, nurturing it while it is still nascent and tender, before it turns into swollen summer. But while the whole earth prepares for spring, Hannah feels a great anxiety in her heart, for something dangerous has grown in her, something she never planted or even wanted to plant. It’s there. She knows it’s there. If she’s truthful with herself, she’s probably known it all along. But now, as the days grow longer and the Garden District grows greener, she can actually see it. It has sprung up at last, and it refuses to be unseen. She tells herself it’s passing. It’s temporary. It’s intensified only because she’s a senior and all of her emotions are heightened. It’s innocent. It’s typical for a girl her age. It’s no more or less of a feeling than everyone else has had at 17. But deep down, deep below the topsoil of her heart, she knows it’s not. Still, she pushes it down inside of her, buries it as far as it can go, suffocates it in the space between her stomach and her heart. She tells herself that she is stronger, that she can fight it, that she has control. That no one else has to know. I can ignore it, she thinks. I can refuse to look at it. I can stomp on it every time it springs up within me. So she lies to herself that everything is normal. That she is normal. She carries herself through the end of the school week by refusing to acknowledge it. By refusing to align her heart with the growing sunlight and the nurturing heat and the flowering plants and the tall, proud trees. ‘You alright?’ Baker asks, when Hannah says goodbye to her after school on Friday. Hannah stomps, buries, suffocates, wishes for death. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m good.

Here I am, the brand new me living the same old life.

Hannah showed me what on the order had been completed, and I rushed to begin the four baker's dozens of our good-morning muffins. They were a big hit with the health-crazed folks on the island. The muffins were packed with grated carrots, chopped apples, raisins soaked in vanilla, coconut, and pecans.

Do you ever think I can’t do it anymore? Like, I wanna die? …Like everything's black.

Unfortunately, you can't be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a persons life, you're messing with their entire life.

Jacobs is an excellent baker, a skill she inherited from her beloved grandmother. She is funny, beautiful and smart.

They bake slower if you watch them.” “That sounds like a lie.” “It’s true,” I say as confidentially as I can without laughing. “Every baker knows.

The popular kids are always mean. That’s how they get popular.

And oh-so suddenly, I feel like I’m Hannah Baker, and Winter is my thirteenth reason why.