“For a second I was just a kid—a kid who had lived all of his life in the same tiny town. Just a child. Because I knew I would have to live a lot more, suffer a lot more, to ever understand the searing agony in Edward’s eyes. He raised a hand as if to wipe sweat from his forehead, but his fingers scraped against his face like they were going to rip his granite skin right off. His black eyes burned in their sockets, out of focus, or seeing things that weren’t there. His mouth opened like he was going to scream, but nothing came out. This was the face a man would have if he were burning at the stake. For a moment I couldn’t speak. It was too real, this face—I’d seen a shadow of it in the house, seen it in her eyes and his, but this made it final. The last nail in her coffin.” —
Meyer, Stephenie (2008-08-02). Breaking Dawn (The Twilight Saga, Book 4) (pp. 176-177). Hachette Book Group. Kindle Edition.
Now, I’m not sure how anybody can read this and say that Stephenie Meyer can’t write.
“So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.” —Jorge Luis Borges (via letsallgooutside)