Note: the following quotes are not in any chronological order.

The problem with my life was that it was someone else’s idea.

I first saw this book on Goodreads, and it spiked my interest because of its title: I like to write my titles longer than common sense suggests, and this book was kind of like that. So I downloaded it (eventually my best friend – who lives in India, mind you – bought it and sent it to me as a gift and I love her so much for that) read the first page (title of first part + quote above) and instantly fell in love.
It’s no secret that most teenagers think like that, that their lives don’t belong to them. I knew this quote didn’t only speak to me, but it felt so like me that I just… I don’t know. I almost teared up on a single quote. I know it’s pathetic, but it was the first time I saw feelings I didn’t know I had put into such simple and beautiful words.

The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belonged to the rain.

So I started reading it immediately, and oh boy did I love every second I spent in it. The first page of the story alone was enough to make me laugh and get angry and laugh. I used to not believe in love at first sight, even as a kid. Boy, was I wrong.

Everyone was always becoming someone else.

You know how you can sometimes relate to a character? I related to all of them. Half of Ari’s personality is half of mine. Half of Dante’s personality is my other half. Their parents are the kind of parent I picture myself to be if I ever decided I wanted a brat.

“How’s your pain?”

“My pain is fine.”

If anyone ever told me they wanted to get to know me, I’d tell them to read this book and they’d know everything. And that kinda scares me.

But I don’t just love it because of how much I relate to it.

I also love it because of how different the characters are from both me and each other.

Words were different when they lived inside of you.

Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe the story. It’s so well written, the characters are so funny and sad and happy at the same time. When I was rereading (I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it) the book in the metro today, I was asked if I was okay because it looked as though I was going to laugh and cry at the same time.

I have always felt terrible inside. The reasons for this keep changing.

I reread this book when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m nostalgic, when I’m bored. I reread it just for the heck of rereading it, sometimes.

This is my problem. I want other people to tell me how they feel. But I’m not so sure I want to return the favor.

To be honest, that book is not everyone’s cup of tea. But for those who would like it, they wouldn’t just like it. It would feel like a universe was being created and destroyed and created all over again inside of you.

“I love the desert. God, I love the desert.”

“It’s so lonely.”

“Is it?”

Hell, if you want to paint the story in a picture, I’d say the book cover is a pretty damn good representation. It’s more than just a story about friendship. To me, it was about discovering who I was. There’s a universe inside of me that I hadn’t known was there.

I felt like there was a whole world living inside her. I didn’t know anything about that world.

This book really felt intimate. Like, really, really intimate. Selfishly, I didn’t want to share it with anyone.

Feeling sorry for myself was an art. I think a part of me liked doing that.

I feel weird sharing it with you guys; it kind of feels like I’m stripping myself naked and giving my lover up for prostitution. But I’m doing it anyway because everyone and no one should read it.

“Ari, Ari, Ari. You’re fighting this war in the worst possible way.”

“I don’t know how to fight it, Dad.”

“You should ask for help,” he said.

“I don’t know how to do that, either.”

I don’t want a movie adaptation, I don’t want a sequel, I only want this book. This beautiful, amazing, intimate book.

When the author announced he was writing a sequel, I got both happy and sad. Happy, because I would have more to discover. Sad, because reading it will probably feel like cheating on your best friend, with your best friend.

When I was a boy, I used to wake up thinking that the world was ending.

This book makes me want to hug the author for a thousand years. A thousand years telling him “Thank you.” and “I love you.”

I love him for making me feel that I really am not alone. I love him for being my friend when I was sad. When I was happy. When I was nostalgic. I love him for cheering me up. I love him for existing, really.

But most of all, I love him for making me realise something:

There are some words I’ll never learn to spell.