“Justin is twenty-four years old: the world will never be more suited to him than it is now, he will never feel more embraced by life or have greater faith in his right to exist. The earth and the oxygen,… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“How can you know love, and lose it, and go on living without it, and not feel the loss forever?" "You can't," Feather answered.… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
More than this, I believe that the only lastingly important form of writing is writing for children. It is writing that is carried in… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“Goodbye, fin,' I say. And I wish I was going with him, to some warm sheltered hideaway in the hills, wish that I, too,… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“Some things about him are the same as ever. He still looks painfully angelic.” — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“We walked into the forests which encircled the town. I have never liked them, their dark throat, their sullen height, their slump-shouldered gloom. But… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
