Posts tagged prep
Maggie May
"Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are.”
Okay. So honestly if I say anything that offends anyone, or they want to discuss any books with me just let me know. But all I can really say about this book is that if you like 400 pages of a girl bitching, then this is the book for you. This girl’s personality drove me CRAZY and not in the good-love-the-book kind of way. The entire book was like listening to Cee Lo Green’s F*** you song when he’s crying ‘why’ for 400 pages straight. She was too self-conscious and the whole thing was her asking herself what if? and never going out there to see what if really meant. She was embarrassed of every little thing and kept saying she could never be like the pretty girls or like the cool girls. Well it was because SHE DIDN’T TRY. She just complained in her head. I could barely get through the book, it took me a while. And then god, the whole boy situation. I hated her for what she did to herself, because she didn’t think she deserved better. And I hated her for what she did to her parents. She was a snobby kid embarrassed by her not-so-rich family who wouldn’t try to be friends with anyone except her roomate — who was her only real friend. I don’t know how this was a New York Times Bestseller, because it was boooooooring.
Please voice your opinion on this book! I’d love to hear more.
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It seemed to me, and it kept seeming like this for a long time, that this was what it was to love a boy — to feel consumed.
I already recognized, even then, the sadness of another person lying on top of you. They will always leave (what’s someone going to do, just lie there forever?) and that’s the sad part. You can always feel the imminent loss.
I wanted to be the person cross told things to. I wanted him to think I was pretty. I wanted him to be reminded of me by stuff I liked — pistachios and hooded sweatshirts and the Dylan song “A Girl from the North Country” — and I wanted him to miss me when we were apart. I wanted him to feel, when we were lying in bed together, like he couldn’t imagine anywhere better.
I was too young then to understand how simple facts of geography and time can separate people.
Perhaps this sounds mercenary, but I feel grateful for these trial relationships, and I would like to think it all evens out — surely, unknowingly, I have served as practice for other people.
It’s hard to rectify an unspoken mistake by speaking; almost always, it only makes things worse.
How was I supposed to understand, when I applied at the age of thirteen, that you had your whole life to leave your family?
The small rewards we give ourselves — I think maybe there is nothing sadder.
We stood quietly in the hubbub, staring at Senator Tunniff, and I could feel my love for my father. This was one of the best things about family, how you knew each other’s shorthand.
Her questions, her little efforts — didn’t she know that easterners didn’t really care? Niceness for its own sake wasn’t a virtue to them.
It was my observation that beautiful and popular people rarely spent time alone.
Thinking this felt the way peeing in your pants does when you’re five or six: a complicated relief, one best ignored in the present moment.
I thought maybe this was why you told stories to other people — for how their possibilities enlarged in the retelling.
Life is clearest when guided by ulterior motives.
