Jay asher quotes

Hannah wasn't my first kiss, but the first kiss that mattered: the first kiss with someone who mattered. (pg 222).

I've always loved brainstorming with other writers, and I consider having my work critiqued a part of that brainstorming.

Actually, I love trying to figure out why certain books become hits while others, which may be just as good, have trouble finding an audience.

‎Because if I hadn't been so afraid of everyone else, I might have told Hannah that someone cared. And Hannah might still be alive.

What the hell happened to Pluto?!

But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.

If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land. If my love were a desert, you would see only sand. If my love were a star- late at night, only light. And if my love could grow wings, I'd be soaring in flight.

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

Normally when a person has a stellar image another person's waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They're waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.

How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?

What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.

I didn't humiliate him by pointing it out because that's not how you treat friends. You don't judge them. You don't humiliate them. I bet he's been judging me all along.

Everything about it was false. Right then, in that office, with the realization that no one knew the truth about my life, my thoughts about the world were shaken.

I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew—someone I liked. I'm listening... but still, I'm too late.

It's important to be aware of how we treat others. Even though someone appears to shrug off a sideways comment or to not be affected by a rumor, it's impossible to know everything else going on in that person's life, how we might be adding to his/her pain. People do have an impact on the lives of others; that's undeniable.

Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.

He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

When you write a book for publication, you're writing it for other people to read.

I waited a second. Should I? No... but I will.

I wanted people to trust me, despite anything they'd heard. And more than that, I wanted them to know me. Not the stuff they thought they knew about me. No, the real me. I wanted them to get past the rumors. To see beyond the relationships I once had, or maybe still had but that they didn't agree with.

The longer you wait, and this is true, the slower the hands will move.

All you really have... is now.

The road to publication is like a churro - long and bumpy, but sweet.

If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead... write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me. And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and know absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing...and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.

And it feels strange, almost sad, to walk through ther empty halls. Each step I take sounds so lonely.

How can you call it love when it hurt you so badly?" "It was love because it was worth it.

Why does it say she has three hundred and twenty friends?" Josh asks. "Who has that many friends?

I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.

And what about you-the rest of you-did you notice the scars you left behind? No. Probably not. Because most of them can't be seen with the naked eye.

And after I dropped him off, I took the longest possible route home... I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered neighborhoods entirely new to me. And finally... I discovered I was sick of this town and everything in it.

I didn't feel physically sick. But mentally. My mind was twisting in so many ways. (...) We once saw a documentary on migraines. One of the men interviewed used to fall on his knees and bang his head against the floor, over and over during attacks. This diverted the pain from deep inside his brain, where he couldn't reach it, to a pain outside that he had control over.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

You can hear rumors. But you can't know them.

I simply wanted a kiss. I was a freshman girl who had never been kissed. Never. But I liked the boy, he liked me, and I was going to kiss him. That's the story, the whole story, right there.

We all know the sound a camera makes when it snaps a picture. Even some of the digitals do it for nostalgia’s sake.

Then come to realize that you're making mountains out of molehills. Realize how petty you've become. Sure, it may feel like you can't get a grip on this town. It may seem that every time someone offers you a hand up, they just let go and you slip further down. But you must stop being so pessimistic, Hannah, and learn to trust those around you. So I do. One more time.

I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.

His door is closed behind me. It's staying closed. He's letting me go. I think I've made myself very clear, but no ones stepping forward to stop me. A lot of you cared, just not enough. And that...that is what i needed to find out. And I did find out. And I'm sorry.

The main thing I wanted to say, and thankfully it’s what most people say they get out of the book, is simply an acknowledgement that we do affect each other in ways we can’t predict.

I swear, guys in groups are capable of the stupidest things." "Like war," Kellan says, heaping napkins and ketchup packets onto her tray. "And jumping off rooftops." "And lighting their farts on fire," she says.

A flood of emotions rushes into me. Pain and anger. Sadness and pity. But most surprising of all, hope.

Teens in the '90s had the same basic desires as they do now.

It's hard to be disappointed when what you expected turns out to be true.

As a writer, my only responsibility is to tell a compelling story.

People grow apart, and sometimes, there nothing anyone can do about it.

She wants to believe my excuses so bad. Every time I lie, she wants to believe me so much.

No one knows for certain how much impact they have on the lives of other people. Oftentimes, we have no clue. Yet we push it just the same.

Because no, I didn’t push her away. I didn’t add to her pain or do anything to hurt her. Instead, I left her alone in that room. The only person who might’ve been able to reach out and save her from herself. To pull her back from wherever she was heading. I did what she asked and I left. When I should have stayed.

And here he is again, yet things feel like they'll never be as easy between us as they once were.

The Golden Rule will always be good advice!

Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to decide.

I sat. And I thought. And the more I thought, connecting the events in my life, the more my heart collapsed.

A week went by and nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.

You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.

Stories about sensitive issues like sex, drugs or sexual assault, suicide and teen drinking, are often censored because people just don't want to talk about those things. It's not that these things don't happen, but when they're shared in a fictional setting, for some reason they make some people uncomfortable.

When you hold people up for ridicule, you have to take responsibility when other people act on it.

One little ripple started today could create a typhoon fifteen years from now.

Maybe if I forgot things once in a while, we'd all be a little bit happier.

I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.

In the end....everything matters.

Because when you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.

Betrayal. It's one of the worst feelings.

They were like two magnets who couldn't decide whether to attract or repel.

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 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.

and i walked for hours the mist growing thick and whole the thought of disappaering like that, so simply, made me so happy

And in high school, people are always watching so there's always a reason to pose.

I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.

I needed a break... from myself.

I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.

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

That’s when I said it. That’s when I whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.” Because inside, I felt so happy and sad at the same time. Sad that it took me so long to get there. But happy that we got there together.

We both laugh. And it feels good. A release. Like laughing at a funeral. Maybe inappropriate, but definitely needed.

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

Those are some strong currents you're swimming against.

You don't need to watch out for me, Clay." But I did, Hannah. And I wanted to. I could have helped you. But when I tried, you pushed me away. I can almost hear Hannah's voice speaking my nest thought for me. "Then why didn't you try harder?

I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.

Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

If I had a chance with him, I missed it. No, I didn't miss it. I threw it away.

That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible.

After all, how often do we get a second chance?

I want to look back. To look over my shoulder and see the Stop sign with huge reflective letters, pleading with Hannah. Stop!

Josh will begin disappearing into a future where the only place he and I remain friends is on the Internet.

Because I've heard so many stories that I don't know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.

I decided to find out how people at school might react if one of the students never came back.

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 these tapes, you're one of the reasons why.

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.

My breathing begins to slow. The tension in my muscles starts to relax. Then, a click in the headphones. A slow breath of air. I open my eyes to bright moonlight. And Hannah, with warmth. Thank you.

Imagine ten or tweleve orange chairs arrainged in a circle, with the happy woen from the flyer sitting at opposite ends. Only problem was, from day one, they weren't happy. Someone, whoever made that flyer, must have digitally turned their frowns upside down. They wrote about death. About the evilness of men. About the destruction of-and I quote- "the greenish, bluish orb with wisps of white." Seriously, that's how they descibed it. They went on to call Earth a knocked-up gaseous alien needing an abortion.

Will I ever get control of my life? Will I always be shoved back and pushed around by those I trust?

Maybe it didn’t seem like a big deal to you Zach. But now, I hope you understand. My world was collapsing. I needed those notes. I needed any hope those notes might have offered. And you? You took that hope away. You decided I didn’t deserve to have it.

And as I stood there in the hallway―alone―trying to understand what had just happened and why, I realized the truth: I wasn't worth an explanation―not even a reaction. Not in your eyes.

It's up to the reader to decipher the code, or the words, based on everything they know about life and emotions.

A lot of you cared, just not enough.

Because our lies matched. It was a sign.

This time, for the first time, I saw the possibilities in giving up. I even found hope in it.

Maybe you didn't know what people thought of you because they themselves didn't know what they thought of you. Maybe you didn't give us enough to go on, Hannah.

Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don’t understand. Thoughts that aren’t even true—that aren’t really how we feel—but they’re running through our heads anyway because they’re interesting to think about. If you could hear other people’s thoughts, you’d overhear things that are true as well as things that are completely random. And you wouldn’t know one from the other. It’d drive you insane. What’s true? What’s not? A million ideas, but what do they mean?

But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

Watching those guys pummel each other so no one would suspect them of being weak was too much for me. Their reputations were more important than their faces.

I wanted to tell you everything. And that hurt because some things were too scary. Some things even I didn’t understand. How could I tell someone—someone I was really talking to for the first time—everything I was thinking? I couldn’t. It was too soon.

Yes, it feels great to plan your life when you believe everything can turn out fine. But what about when you're shown, again and again, how little control you have over anything? No matter what I do to try to fix my future, it doesn't work.

Do you remember the last thing you said to me? The last thing you did to me? And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me when I said it I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.

You need to figure out what you want, Josh. If that means you need to swim against the tide to get it, at least youre aiming for something that could make you very happy.

Why would anyone say this stuff about themselves on the Internet? It's crazy!

But they were wrong. There was a reason.

But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

When the right moment appears, the key is to not let it pass.

If time was a string connecting all of your stories, that party would be the point where everything knots up. And that knot keeps growing and growing, getting more and more tangled, dragging the rest of your stories into it.

Could be my soul mate / two kindred spirits / Maybe we're not / I guess we'll never / know

I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself to the ivy.

Justin, honey, you were my very first kiss. My very first hand to hold. But you were nothing more than an average guy. And I don't say that to be mean- I don't. There was just something about you that made me need to be your girlfriend to this day I don't know exactly what that was. But it was there.. and it was amazingly strong. -Thirteen Reasons Why

And concentrating on the spot where the two spindles should be is the closest I get to looking Hannah's eyes as she tells my story.

It's nothing. A school project. My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project.

When you try rescuing someone and discover they can't be reached, why would you ever throw that back in their face?

You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything. . . affects everything.

Did the poet use red to symbolize blood? Anger? Lust? Or is the wheelbarrow simply red because red sounded better than black?

Everything...affects everything

Sometimes we have thoughts that even we don't understand. Thoughts that aren't even true—that aren't really how we feel—but they're running through our heads anyway because they're interesting to think about.

Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed. But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party: Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh. I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. "Clay! Whatcha doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!

And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.

That is all that happened. Why did you hear something else?

Josh turns to me. “I can’t believe she’s writing these things.” “Not she,” I say. “Me.” “Why would anyone say this stuff about themselves on the Internet? It’s crazy!” “Exactly,” I say. “I’m going to be mentally ill in fifteen years, and that’s why my husband doesn’t want to be around me.

Rejection always hurts, but having it come from my best friend was the worst.