Seven Days In June Quotes

Women are expected to absorb traumas both subtle and loud and move on. Shoulder the weight of the world. But when the world fucks with us, the worst thing we can do is bury it. Embracing it makes us strong enough to fuck the world right back.

Girls are given the weight of the world, but nowhere to put it down. The power and magic born in that struggle? It’s so terrifying to men that we invented reasons to burn y’all at the stake, just to keep our dicks hard.

Girls are given the weight of the world, but nowhere to put it down.

And maybe that was what real, adult love was. Being fearless enough to hold each other close no matter how catastrophic the world became. Loving each other with enough ferocity to quell the fears of the past. Just fucking being there.

I idealize you in fiction because I idealized you in real life,” he continued.

I know what I was like.” “You don’t.” Shane went dead serious. “You burst into my solitude, demanding to be seen. You were overwhelming. Just wild and weird and brilliant, and I never had a choice. I liked everything about you. Even the scary parts. I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.

Shane cupped her face in his hands. “It never ends, does it? Loving you never ends. Whether you’re Genevieve or Eva. Whether I lose you for years or wake up to your face every morning. I love you. You’re my home. And I want you forever.

Women didn’t get to be bad boys.

Isn’t it obvious?” “Apparently not.” “I’m not just writing about you,” said Shane. “I’m writing to you.

One thing,” she whispered, her lips by his jaw. She didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Before I forget.” “What’s that?” “Stop writing about me.” Only Eva could’ve noticed the change in his expression. She saw the flinch. The slow, satisfied curl of his lip. His bronzy-amber eyes flashing. It was like he’d been waiting years to hear those words. Like the girl whose pigtails he’d been yanking during recess all year had finally shoved him back. He looked gratified. In a voice both raspy and low, and so, so familiar, Shane said, “You first.

Have you ever been in a Walmart?” asked Eva. “Physically, yes. Spiritually, no.

Religion. Hmm. I guess it's like fire. In good hands, fire can be used to do positive things, like keep you warm. Make s'mores. In bad hands, it can burn a witch at the stake. Lynch a Black body.

No matter how perilous the journey, it’s never over for true soul mates.

How do you finish a love story that you…you never wanted to end?

I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.

The world was too loud for little-boy Shane. What he didn’t know was that he was training himself to be a deeply empathetic writer—understanding nuanced emotion, spying humanity in unexpected places, seeing past the obvious. He was taking notes for his future self, who would write it all down.

There’s an alternate universe where I never left

This new Eva, the free Eva, was tired of being rattled by life. How long had she lived being too terrified to show her real self? There was power in showing the messiness of her life and what it took to hold it together.

I stayed alive for you, and you. But you killed me anyway.

Adult social stuff can’t be harder than seventh grade. It’s not hard to make friends. Just be an active listener. If you listen hard enough, you can tell what a person needs from you. And if you give them what they need, you’ve got a friend for life.

Just say it,” Eva said with a smile. “I’ve never said it. To anyone.” “It won’t hurt, I promise.” Shane grinned, a heart-stopping thing. Then laid his face on her breasts, closing his eyes. “Ready?” he asked. “Ready.” “I love you,” said Shane. “Dramatically, violently, and forever.” She kissed the top of his head, smiling brighter than the sun. “I’ve always loved you,” he whispered. “What a coincidence,” she whispered back. “I’ve always loved you, too.

Look at history,” Eva continued, rubbing a temple. “Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.

Running away wasn’t empowering. An empowered woman would’ve indulged.

Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.

If you have the opportunity to make a moment meaningful, why not take it?

Destigmatizing male vulnerability is the first step toward rebuilding the absolute ruin that straight men have left the world in.

Shane was her lighthouse. If he went dark, she’d be lost, treading black water forever.

Adulthood is a lie, Audre. We're all just tall toddlers.

I thought you were a problem that needed solving. But you don't need solving. You need understanding.

You push away stuff away that isn't safe and obvious, Mom, but love isn't safe and obvious. Love is risky. Take the risk, woman.

Like when Spotify plays a song you haven't heard since childhood, and it reminds you who you are. Like "Oh yeah, I'm a person who knows all the words to Will Smith's 'Wild Wild West.

A tree grows its branches out until it touches the tips of the next closest tree. And they're linked forever. Because if they're really close, their roots grow together. They're so intertwined underneath that no matter what happens above ground, they stay connected.

And here’s what’s really good,” continued Belinda. “The publishing industry has a hard time processing Black characters unless we’re suffering.

Acting sober is an art,” he explained. “The trick is to say very little and be very still.

...but he can't stop himself from loving her. Maybe it's 'cause he knows that in the end, she'll survive him. ... By virtue of being a woman, she's stronger. Girls are given the weight of the world, but nowhere to put it down. The power and magic born in that struggle? It's so terrifying to men that we invented reasons to burn y'all at the stake, just to keep our dicks hard.

It never ends, does it? Loving you never ends. Whether you’re Genevieve or Eva. Whether I lose you for years or wake up to your face every morning. I love you. You’re my home. And I want you forever.

They both giggled, until they’d forgotten what was funny. Eventually, they lapsed into comfortable silence, enjoying the sun.

Now, I never got married. No, no, no, I ain’t one of those funny ladies. I just won’t fold myself up tiny so as not to put off no man.

I’ve always loved you,” he whispered. “What a coincidence,” she whispered back. “I’ve always loved you, too.

No matter how perilous the journey, it’s never over for true soul mates. Who doesn’t want a connection that burns forever, despite distance, time, and curses?

Go." "Can't." Eva shook her head. "It'd require breaking myself open." "Why don't you want to?" "It's a mess in there," she said hollowly. He wondered when the last time she'd fallen apart in front of someone was. "But that's the good stuff," he insisted. "It's you.

Be nice to her,” she said, low and fast. “My mom keeps a lot of stuff inside, but her thoughts are really loud. I know she’s been scared and lonely. She has a disability, but you probably know that. It’s a barometric-pressure thing. When it rains or snows or gets really hot or really cold too fast, she hurts. But alcohol, stress, loud noises, and weird smells do it, too. You have to learn her triggers. And please, just be patient with her. Sometimes she has to lie down for a long time. You might feel bored or lonely or even rejected, but she can’t help being sick.” Audre rested her hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Mom feels guilty about who she is. Make her feel happy about herself.

Given that those sinning, raping plantation owners had both white babies and Black babies, everyone was six degrees from being one or the other. Which was what scared southern white people the most.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2019, THIRTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD EVA MERCY NEARLY choked to death on a piece of gum. She’d been attempting to masturbate when the gum lodged in her throat, cutting off her air supply.

She did think of him sometimes. Lying alone in a hospital bed at 2:00 a.m., or during bouts of writer's block. He'd appear on the fringes of her thoughts—no face, just a feeling. His warm, minty-vanilla scent. The rough softness of his skin, like velvet caressed against the grain.

...you burst into my solitude demanding to be seen. You were overwhelming. Just wild and weird and brilliant, and I never had a choice. I liked everything about you. Even the scary parts. I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.

Long ago, she'd learned that life could be bitterly disappointing if allowed. There were blows and stumbles, but your job was to stay interested in the world.

Miles Davis said there are two categories of thinking: the truth and white bullshit. The national anthem is white bullshit.

MAKE AMERICA NEW YORK.

Because I barely survived Shane Hall. I barely survived myself. It was a dark time. My home life was traumatic. I was a chaotic, angry kid. Why reminisce?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and feed my two kittens, Growth and Metamorphosis.

love you. You’re my home. And I want you forever.

I wanna be everything,” he said, his mouth against her ear. “Wanna be the reason you light up. I wanna make you laugh, make you moan, make you safe.

You know you’re the turtle, right? The one who comes and goes as he pleases while I wait for you?

I like being single,” Eva continued quietly. “I don’t want anyone to have to really see me.

When it’s real, you don’t fall in love with any awareness. You don’t get a say. You get hit fucking hard and then process it later. You know?

Maybe that's what real adult love was. Being fearless enough to hold each other close no matter how catastrophic the world became.

He'd forgotten, because he had no experience with being needed.

If you listen hard enough, you can tell what a person needs from you. And if you give them what they need, you've got a friend for life.

When we were together, I felt like someone else had stolen all your smiles before me.

Finally, Shane angled the microphone up and spoke five words. “This is for the misfit.

It was an old story, really. Women telling the truth, and no one believing them.

He’s the human equivalent of a spam email,

No one was perfect! And maybe that was what real, adult love was. Being fearless enough to hold each other close no matter how catastrophic the world became. Loving each other with enough ferocity to quell the fears of the past. Just fucking being there.

Lizette would never get it. Eva needed her for everything. She'd just never had her.

Because even bigger than her sadness was her determination.

Just be kind to yourself.

I cut myself. He didn’t do it. And I’d been taking drugs—your drugs, or getting them from your boyfriends—my whole life. I wasn’t your innocent little baby.

I know too much,” he said, his words weighted with old pain. The kind that makes a home on the fringes of your thoughts forever.

The burden isn’t on me to explain it, Rich. The burden’s on y’all to fix it. Good luck.

Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.

Listen, caring about things don't maek you soft. IT makes you alive.

Listen. Caring about things doesn't make you soft. It makes you alive.

Every time one of her terribly dysfunctional relationships imploded, she was confused and stunned. And then with fresh hope, she’d fling herself at another jackass.

Prison is the school of the unlearned lesson.

In second grade, she’d snuck up on a napping Eva and colored her entire forearm with a highlighter. Because she was “important.

Years ago, she’d thought love wasn’t real unless it drew blood

Then he met Eva, and she breathed the same air. She stuck to his bones, imprinted herself on his brain—and thoroughly rearranged his world, in the best way.

So instead of writing about Gia, a witch who uses her powers to fight for a man, I'm fighting for myself.

I wanna be where all your paths end.” He nipped her earlobe. “I wanna do everything you do to me.” He pulsed his finger then, and she came with a shuddery cry. “You’re hired,” she breathed.

Robin Hood. To a Friend. No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Ofthe leaves of many years: Many times have winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe"; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her---strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try.

But inexplicable things happened to him, and Shane accepted life's oddities. He didn't know if this made him an adventurer or an idiot, but one thing was true—nothing interesting ever came from a clear path of rationality.

Yeah, but like, I just wanna ask her if she wants to go with me to Cold Stone or whatever. Get some ice cream,” grumbled Ty. “You’re doing too much.” “See, you don’t even need my help! You got a plan,” said Shane encouragingly. “Just ask her out tomorrow. And be confident with it. If you believe you’re that dude, she will, too.” “Maybe I should ask her if she’s lactose intolerant first.” “Under no circumstances should you do that.” “Nah, you right.

didn’t leave you,” he said finally. “What?” “Your mom never said anything?” “No,” she said, her voice cracking, pleading. “What happened?” “I didn’t leave you.” Confusion flooded her face. “I would never have left you. It was…your mom. She sent me away.

A minute ago it was June. Now the weather is September. The crops are high, about to be cut, bright, golden, November? unimaginable. Just a month away. The days are still warm, the air in the shadows sharper. The nights are sooner, chillier, the light a little less each time. Dark at half-past seven. Dark at quarter past seven, dark at seven. The greens of the trees have been duller since August, since July really. But the flowers are still coming. The hedgerows are still humming. The shed is already full of apples and the tree's still covered in them. The birds are on the powerlines. The swifts left week ago. They're hundreds of miles from here by now, somewhere over the ocean.

How do you think she got there?” Shane’s voice was an unsteady mix of regret and pain. “I found her number in your phone, and I called her. When she got to the house, she called the paramedics. And the police. And sent me to prison.” The blood drained from Eva’s face. “No.” “Ask her,” he said gently. “Ask her.

My mom told me. And you were young and scared and trying to be tough—and I promised you that you’d never go back. I promised. And she sent you back.” She gulped dryly. “Shane, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything I said yesterday. I’m sorry for blaming you for all these years. For hating you. I hated you so much.

Eva turned to face him. “I’m so sorry.” “No, I’m sorry. That’s what I came to New York to say. I’m sorry I broke my promise. And I’m sorry I didn’t find you the second I was released. But by then, you’d published your first book. You were a success, and I didn’t want to ruin it. Back then, I was convinced that I ruined

It’s raising you up for prison. Your every move is criminalized, by design. In most schools, kids don’t get expelled for saying ‘fuck’ or get tased for tardiness or incarcerated for missing one detention. In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.” Ty’s eyes focused on his notebook. He was painfully aware that Shane was referring to him. He’d been sent to juvie for missing a detention.

For half my life, I've hidden behind these characters. I've hidden in general. I've spent so much time being scared. Scared of digging too deep into who I really am, for fear of what I might find. What ghosts I might confront, secrets I might uncover. Better to bury it all. I thought I couldn't be a successful person if I had demons. But what fully realized person doesn't? No one expects men to be flaw-free. Women are expected to absorb traumas both subtle and loud and move on. Shoulder the weight of the world. But when the world fucks with us, the worst thing we can do is bury it. Embracing it makes us strong enough to fuck the world right back.

January? The month is dumb. It is fraudulent. It does not cleanse itself. The hens lay blood-stained eggs. Do not lend your bread to anyone lest it nevermore rise. Do not eat lentils or your hair will fall out. Do not rely on February except when your cat has kittens, throbbing into the snow. Do not use knives and forks unless there is a thaw, like the yawn of a baby. The sun in this month begets a headache like an angel slapping you in the face. Earthquakes mean March. The dragon will move, and the earth will open like a wound. There will be great rain or snow so save some coal for your uncle. The sun of this month cures all. Therefore, old women say: Let the sun of March shine on my daughter, but let the sun of February shine on my daughter-in-law. However, if you go to a party dressed as the anti-Christ you will be frozen to death by morning. During the rainstorms of April the oyster rises from the sea and opens its shell — rain enters it — when it sinks the raindrops become the pearl. So take a picnic, open your body, and give birth to pearls. June and July? These are the months we call Boiling Water. There is sweat on the cat but the grape marries herself to the sun. Hesitate in August. Be shy. Let your toes tremble in their sandals. However, pick the grape and eat with confidence. The grape is the blood of God. Watch out when holding a knife or you will behead St. John the Baptist. Touch the Cross in September, knock on it three times and say aloud the name of the Lord. Put seven bowls of salt on the roof overnight and the next morning the damp one will foretell the month of rain. Do not faint in September or you will wake up in a dead city. If someone dies in October do not sweep the house for three days or the rest of you will go. Also do not step on a boy's head for the devil will enter your ears like music. November? Shave, whether you have hair or not. Hair is not good, nothing is allowed to grow, all is allowed to die. Because nothing grows you may be tempted to count the stars but beware, in November counting the stars gives you boils. Beware of tall people, they will go mad. Don't harm the turtle dove because he is a great shoe that has swallowed Christ's blood. December? On December fourth water spurts out of the mouse. Put herbs in its eyes and boil corn and put the corn away for the night so that the Lord may trample on it and bring you luck. For many days the Lord has been shut up in the oven. After that He is boiled, but He never dies, never dies.

The second simultaneous thing Reacher was doing was playing around with a little mental arithmetic. He was multiplying big numbers in his head. He was thirty-seven years and eight months old, just about to the day. Thirty-seven multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five was thirteen thousand five hundred and five. Plus twelve days for twelve leap years was thirteen thousand five hundred and seventeen. Eight months counting from his birthday in October forward to this date in June was two hundred and forty-three days. Total of thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty days since he was born. Thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty days, thirteen thousand seven hundred and sixty nights. He was trying to place this particular night somewhere on that endless scale. In terms of how bad it was. Truth was, it wasn’t the best night he had ever passed, but it was a long way from being the worst. A very long way.

These partygoers hadn’t been the cool kids growing up. They’d spent their adolescence buried in art books, scrawling poems into steno pads during recess, living full stories in their heads. Distracted by their artistic micro-obsessions, many forgot to learn how to engage with the world. They were too busy studying life, storing up their notes to use later in a novel, a song, a script, a painting. They were observers, not joiners.

To grasp the movement of the sun in the Arctic is no simple task. Imagine standing precisely at the North Pole on June 21, the summer solstice. Your feet rest on a crust of snow and windblown ice. If you chip the snow away you find the sea ice, grayish white and opaque. Six or seven feet underneath is the Arctic Ocean, dark, about 29°F and about 13,000 feet deep. You are standing 440 miles from the nearest piece of land, the tiny island of Oodaaq off the coast of northern Greenland. You stand in each of the world’s twenty-four time zones and north of every point on earth. On this day the sun is making a flat 360° orbit exactly 23½° above the horizon.

No matter how dizzying his professional highs, Shane just couldn’t resist the pull of the tide sweeping him out. Self-destruction was always imminent. No, if writing had been the cure, the past fifteen years would’ve looked very different. He wouldn’t have taken so long to get sober. He might’ve picked a permanent place to live, put down actual roots. Invested in Seamless or Spotify. He’d have gotten serious about the business of living.

Did she really have to wait out seven more soul-shredding years? It was like being told you can run free one day—in June several years from now—but during every second of the intervening time, you’ll be getting run over by the world’s slowest steamroller, and every day it cracks a bone, and recracks it, and recracks it, and when you’re eighteen all you’re going to have is a body full of dust, lifted and carried into the future like a flag loose from its mast.

There isn’t just one dangerous person here. There’s two. We’re the same.” Too infuriated to speak—seething, knowing that this was uncomfortably accurate—Eva turned her back to Shane and fumbled with the lock again. When she spun back around to face him, trembling, she unloaded all the bottled-up fury she’d been holding in for years. “WHERE DID YOU GO?” Stunned, he shook his head. “What?” “Where did you go?” She stepped toward him, raging, keys digging into her palm. “Okay, we’re both bad. But you disappeared

When I feel lonely, I scroll through Tinder and remind myself what I’m missing. Which is dudes with coconut-oiled beards all posing next to the same graffitied wall in Dumbo with profiles written entirely in emojis. And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.” “Are you speaking metaphorically,” asked Cece, “or are you dating a man named Alone?” “You can’t be serious.” “My doorman is a SoundCloud rapper named Sincere. One never knows.” “I like being single,” Eva continued quietly. “I don’t want anyone to have to really see me.” They sat in silence, Eva idly snapping the rubber band on her wrist.

But it’s bells at twenty-seven thousand feet as the plane breaks into the clear again, as its motion steadies again; it is bells; it is the bell as Ben Hanscom sleeps; and as he sleeps the wall between past and present disappears completely and he tumbles backward through years like a man falling down a deep well – Wells’s Time Traveller, perhaps, falling with a broken iron rung in one hand, down and down into the land of the Morlocks, where machines pound on and on in the tunnels of the night. It’s 1981, 1977, 1969; and suddenly he is here, here in June of 1958; bright summerlight is everywhere and behind sleeping eyelids Ben Hanscom’s pupils contract at the command of his dreaming brain, which sees not the darkness which lies over western Illinois but the bright sunlight of a June day in Derry, Maine, twenty-seven years ago. Bells. The bell. School. School is. School is 2 out! The sound of the bell went burring up and down the halls of Derry School, a big brick building which stood on Jackson Street, and at its sound the children in Ben Hanscom’s fifth-grade classroom raised a spontaneous cheer – and Mrs Douglas, usually the strictest of teachers, made no effort to quell them. Perhaps she knew it would have been impossible. ‘Children!

Unluckier still was Guillaume Le Gentil, whose experiences are wonderfully summarized by Timothy Ferris in Coming of Age in the Milky Way. Le Gentil set off from France a year ahead of time to observe the transit from India, but various setbacks left him still at sea on the day of the transit—just about the worst place to be since steady measurements were impossible on a pitching ship. Undaunted, Le Gentil continued on to India to await the next transit in 1769. With eight years to prepare, he erected a first-rate viewing station, tested and retested his instruments, and had everything in a state of perfect readiness. On the morning of the second transit, June 4, 1769, he awoke to a fine day, but, just as Venus began its pass, a cloud slid in front of the Sun and remained there for almost exactly the duration of the transit: three hours, fourteen minutes, and seven seconds. Stoically, Le Gentil packed up his instruments and set off for the nearest port, but en route he contracted dysentery and was laid up for nearly a year. Still weakened, he finally made it onto a ship. It was nearly wrecked in a hurricane off the African coast. When at last he reached home, eleven and a half years after setting off, and having achieved nothing, he discovered that his relatives had had him declared dead in his absence and had enthusiastically plundered his estate.