I'll Give You The Sun Quotes

Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

I gave up practically the whole world for you,” I tell him, walking through the front door of my own love story. “The sun, stars, ocean, trees, everything, I gave it all up for you.

I love you,” I say to him, only it comes out, “Hey.” “So damn much,” he says back, only it comes out, “Dude.” He still won’t meet my eyes.

Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you've been in before - you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to.

I didn’t know you could get buried in your own silence.

Must you go? I was rather hoping you'd stay and be a ministering angel, but if you must go, you must." "I'll stay," Will said a bit crossly, and threw himself down in the armchair Tessa had just vacated. "I can minister angelically." "None too convincingly. And you're not as pretty to look at as Tessa is," Jem said, closing his eyes as he leaned back against the pillow. "How rude. Many who have gazed upon me have compared the experience to gazing at the radiance of the sun." Jem still had his eyes closed. "If they mean it gives you a headache, they aren't wrong.

When people fall in love, they burst into flames.

His soul might be a sun. I’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul.

Quick, make a wish. Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.

what is bad for the heart is good for art. The terrible irony of our lives as artists.

In one split second I saw everything I could be, everything I want to be. And all that I’m not.

Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?

Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don’t know a damn thing.

Or maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people,” I say. “Maybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time.” Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things.

We wish with our hands, that’s what we do as artists.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

It's never occurred to me that the stars are still up there shining even in the daytime when we can't see them.

We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

There should be a horn or gong or something to wake God. Because I’d like to have a word with him. Three words actually: WHAT THE FUCK?!

A broken heart is an open heart.

It’s time for second chances. It’s time to remake the world.

And even as I'm kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, I wish I were kissing him, wanting more, more, more, more, like I can't get enough, never will be able to get enough.

He was the kind of man who walks into a room and all the walls fall down.

He's the one. And some thoughts once thought are very hard to unthink.

What if I'm in charge of my own damn light switch?

Maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people," I say. "Maybe we're accumulating these new selves all the time.

He floated into the air high above the sleeping forest, his green hat spinning a few feet above his head. In his hand was the open suitcase and out of it spilled a whole sky of stars.

I think you can sort of slip out of your life and it can be hard to find a way back in.

They do make love stories for girls with black hearts after all. They go like this.

No hot guy should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.

And you used to make art and like boys and talk to horses and pull the moon through the window for my birthday present.

People think people are in charge, but they're wrong; it's the trees.

No one tells you how gone gone really is, or how long it lasts.

And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?

I'm thinking the reason I've been so quiet all those years is only because Brian wasn't around yet for me to tell everything to.

No woman can resist a man who has tidal waves and earthquakes beneath the skin.

Jem gave her a wistful look. “Must you go? I was rather hoping that you’d stay and be a ministering angel, but if you must go, you must.” “I’ll stay,” Will said a bit crossly, and threw himself down in the armchair Tessa had just vacated. “I can minister angelically.” “None too convincingly. And you’re not as pretty to look at as Tessa is,” Jem said, closing his eyes as he leaned back against the pillow. “How rude. Many who have gazed upon me have compared it to gazing at the radiance of the sun.” Jem still had his eyes closed. “If they mean that it gives you a headache, they aren’t wrong.

I watch him throw his head back in supreme happiness, like he's hearing that he gets to choose the colors for all the sunsets from now on.

If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

I'm filled with something I can only describe as recognition. Not because he looks familiar on the outside this time, but because he feels familiar on the inside.

Yes, so if God can have two tries, why not us? Or three or three hundred tries.

I remember Guillermo saying the cracks and breaks were the best and most interesting parts of the work in my portfolio. Perhaps it’s the same with people and their cracks and breaks.

Our eyes meet and hold, and the world starts to fall away, time does, years rolling up like rugs, until everything that’s happened unhappens, and for a moment, it’s us again, more one than two.

Who knows if [maybe] destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life?

It was right and wrong both. Love does as it undoes. It goes after, with equal tenacity, joy and heartbreak.

Portrait: The Boy with All the Keys in the World with All the Locks

She's a people-mechanic and always knows when I'm malfunctioning.

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. —E.E. CUMMINGS

Jude is my favorite of all the saints,” he says. “Patron saint of lost causes. The saint to call on when all hope is gone. The one in charge of miracles.

To draw you must close your eyes and sing.

My heart leaves, hitchhikes right out of my body, heads north, catches a ferry across the Bering Sea and plants itself in Siberia with the polar bears and ibex and long-horned goats until it turns into a teeny-tiny glacier. Because I imagined it.

And some thoughts once thought are very hard to unthink.

It occurs to me that Jude does this too, changes who she is depending on who she’s with. They’re like toads changing their skin color. How come I’m always just me?

In a flash, we're through the door, across the street and into the woods, running for no reason and laughing for no reason and totally out of breath and out of our minds when Brian catches me by my shirt, whips me around, and with one strong hand flat against my chest, he pushes me against a tree and kisses me so hard I go blind.

How can people die when you’re in a fight with them? When you’re smack in the middle of hating them? When absolutely nothing between you has been worked out?

So Plato talked about these beings that used to exist that had four legs and four arms and two heads. They were totally self-contained and ecstatic and powerful. Too powerful, so Zeus cut them all in half and scattered all the halves around the world so that humans were doomed to forever look for their other half, the one who shared their very soul. Only the luckiest humans find their split-apart, you see.

I have an allergy to catching and throwing and kicking and dribbling of any kind. Noah is not a team player. Well, duh. Revolutionaries aren’t team players.

When I draw it, I’m going to make my skin see-through and what you’ll see is that all the animals in the zoo of me have broken out of their cages.

His soul might be a sun. I've never met anyone who had the sun for a soul.

(Self Portrait: Boy Remakes World Before World Remakes Boy)

Your eyes are so ethereal, your whole face is. I stared at pictures of you for hours last night. You give me chills. And you give me global warming!

It kicks the breath out of me, kicks bright light into me.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother's hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

I love you," I say to him, but it only comes out, "Hey" "So damn much," he says back, it only comes out, "Dude

I'm falling forward with the force of two years of buried grief, the sorrow of ten thousand oceans finally breaking inside me- I let it. I let my heart break.

Pockets are hand jails.

Would you like an orange, I have an extra" "I'd like to give you the orange actually" "We'll, yes, that's fine and good, but it's not your bloody orange to give. This is my orange

It takes a lot of courage to be true to yourself, true to your heart.

I understand the quicksand of shame.

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

feeling safe because Dad was in charge and it was his hand that pulled the sun up each morning and down at night.

I go behind the telescope, peer into the eyepiece, and all the stars crash down on my head. It’s like taking a shower in the cosmos. I gasp.

Noah once told me he could hear horses galloping inside her. I got it.

She gives of light. I give off dark. (PORTRAIT, SELF-PORTRAIT: Twins: The Flashlight and the Flashdark

I love pizza, meaning: Even when I’m in the middle of eating pizza, I wish I were eating pizza.

I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Before leaving school I consorted with The Oracle: Google.

Then I enter the crawlspace deep inside me and shut the hatch. Because I’m not coming back out. Ever.

Revolutionaries aren't team players.

Everything is true at once. Life is a contradiction. We take in every lesson. We find what works.

Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.

Every picture taken of you reduces your spirit and shortens your life

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn’t. It continues and is ever-changing.

If you give me you, Lucien, then I promise. I’ll give you me.

Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you’ve been in before—you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to

I don’t deserve a love story. Not anymore. Love stories aren’t written for girls who could do what I just did to my brother, for girls with black hearts.

Per your request and his, this is how it's going to be from now on. When I want to ask you to abandoned buildings or kiss those lips of yours or stare into your otherworldly eyes or imagine what you look like under all those baggy drab clothes you're always hiding in or ravish you on some grimy floor like I'm desperate to this very minute, I'll just bugger off on my Hippity Hop. Deal?

Because who knows? Who knows anything? Who knows who's pulling the strings? Or what is? Or how? Who knows if destiny is just how you tell yourself the story of your life? Another son might not have heard his mother's last words as a prophecy but as drug-induced gibberish, forgotten soon after. Another girl might not have told herself a love story about a drawing her brother made. Who knows if Grandma really thought the first daffodils of spring were lucky or if she just wanted to go on walks with me through the woods? Who knows if she even believed in her bible at all or if she just preferred a world where hope and creativity and faith trump reason? Who knows if there are ghosts (sorry, Grandma) or just the living, breathing memories of your loved ones inside you, speaking to you, trying to get your attention by any means necessary? Who knows where the hell Ralph is? (Sorry, Oscar.) No one knows. So we grapple with the mysteries, each in our own way.

This is us. Our pose. The smush. It’s even how we are in the ultrasound photo they took of us inside Mom and how I had us in the picture Fry ripped up yesterday. Unlike most everyone else on earth, from the very first cells of us, we were together, we came here together. This is why no one hardly notices that Jude does most of the talking for both of us, why we can only play piano with all four of our hands on the keyboard and not at all alone, why we can never do Rochambeau because not once in thirteen years have we chosen differently. It’s always: two rocks, two papers, two scissors. When I don’t draw us like this, I draw us as half-people.

I believe in the sun even when it is not shining And I believe in love, even when there’s no one there. And I believe in God, even when He is silent. I believe through any trial, there is always a way But sometimes in this suffering and hopeless despair My heart cries for shelter, to know someone’s there But a voice rises within me, saying hold on my child, I’ll give you strength, I’ll give you hope. Just stay a little while. I believe in the sun even when it is not shining And I believe in love even when there’s no one there But I believe in God even when he is silent I believe through any trial there is always a way. May there someday be sunshine May there someday be happiness May there someday be love May there someday be peace….

I want to get my invisibility sweatshirt and skullcap out of my bag and put it on. But I don't. I want to believe the red ribbon around my wrist will keep me safe always. But it won't. I want to play How Would You Rather Die? instead of figuring out how to live. But I can't. I'm over being a coward. I'm sick of being on pause, of being buried and hidden, of being petrified, in both senses of the word. I don't want to imagine meadows, I want to run through them.

The sunset has turned the sky into a carnival of color as Noah and Brian walk out of the forest, hand in hand. Brian notices Dad and me first and shrugs his hand away, but Noah immediately finds it again. At this, Brian's eyes squint up and his face cracks open in a heart-crushing smile. Noah, like always around Brian, can barely keep his head on his neck, he's so happy.

I run my hands through his hair, finally, finally, finally, then bring his head to mine and kiss him so hard our teeth collide, planets collide, kissing him now for each and every time we didn't all summer long. I know absolutely how to kiss him too, how to make his whole body tremble just from biting his lip, how to make his whole body tremble just from biting his lip, how to make him moan right inside my mouth by whispering his name, how to make his head fall back, his spine arch, how to make him groan through his teeth.

She's never asked for a drawing before. I'm horrible at giving them away. 'For the sun, stars, oceans, and all the trees, I'll consider it,' I say, knowing she'll never agree. She knows how badly I want the sun and trees. We've been dividing up the world since we were five. I'm kicking butt at the moment - universe domination is within my grasp for the first time. 'Are you kidding?' she says, standing up straight. It annoys me how tall she's getting. It's like she's being stretched at night. 'That leaves me just the flowers, Noah.' Fine, I think. She'll never do it. It's settled, but it isn't. She reaches over and props up the pad, gazing at the portrait like she's expecting the English guy to speak to her. 'Okay,' she says. 'Trees, stars, oceans. Fine.' 'And the sun, Jude.' 'Oh, all right," she says, totally surprising me. 'I'll give you the sun.

Or maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people,” I say. “Maybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time.” Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things. He grins. “Each new self standing on the last one’s shoulders until we’re these wobbly people poles?” I die of delight. “Yes, exactly! We’re all just wobbly people poles!

God spreads the heavens above us like great wings And gives a little round of deeds and days, And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes Half shuddering and half joyous from God's peace; And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears, Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words. Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house! Let me have all the freedom I have lost; Work when I will and idle when I will! Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame. I would take the world And break it into pieces in my hands To see you smile watching it crumble away. Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun, Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn, Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew, But now the indissoluble sacrament Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold With my warm heart for ever; the sun and moon Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll But your white spirit still walk by my spirit. When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin, My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken My mother carries me in her golden arms; I'll soon put on my womanhood and marry The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell When I was born for the first time? The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away; While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say-- When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered away.

If you can see a thing whole," he said, "it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives. . . . But close up, a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you loose the pattern. You need distance, interval. The way to see how beautiful earth is, is to see it from the moon. The way to see how beautiful life is, is from the vantage point of death." "That's all right for Urras. Let it stay off there and be the moon-I don't want it! But I am not going to stand up on a gravestone and look down on life and say, 'O lovely!' I want to see it whole right in the middle of it, here, now. I don't give a hoot for eternity." "It's nothing to do with eternity," said Shevek, grinning, a thin shaggy man of silver and shadow. "All you have to do to see life as a whole is to see it as mortal. I'll die, you'll die; how could we love each other otherwise? The sun's going to burn out, what else keeps it shining?" "Ah! your talk, your damned philosophy!" "Talk? It's not talk. It's not reason. It's hand's touch. I touch the wholeness, I hold it. Which is moonlight, which is Takver? How shall I fear death? When I hold it, when I hold in my hands the light-" "Don't be propertarian," Takver muttered. "Dear heart, don't cry." "I'm not crying. You are. Those are your tears." "I'm cold. The moonlight's cold." "Lie down." A great shiver went through his body as she took him in her arms. "I'm afraid, Takver," he whispered.