Best 36 quotes of Caroline George on MyQuotes

After the end of the world, there is a world. Life doesn’t stop. It changes. And it changes me.

Boys are unpredictable and stupid and brash. They do creepy, stalkerish things because they believe in extreme measures. They love to the fullest and ignore completely. They heal hearts and grind them to dust. To have nothing from a boy is devastating, but when he gives his all, the world becomes an electric place, and that is why women love them so—their all is worth the risk.

Coffee first. Save the world later.

Dogs are like that, I guess—they know how to fix you without ever saying a word.

Every moment of contact between us seems important—every glance, every touch, every word. I don’t understand him, but I know him, and he knows me. It’s this strange connection we share. No matter how often we fight, lie, make mistakes, I choose him and deep down, I think he chooses me, too.

I am strong and human with a mouth that works like a man’s and a more intelligible brain, and I demand to be heard.

I’d rather not know what lies ahead because I like the dark. I like thinking there is something good in the places I can’t see. And that’s not ignorance. That’s just hope.

If a boy can manage to have coffee with me during the apocalypse, I know he cares. There’s not a speck of doubt in my mind. He must care.

If I seem to not want to be with him now, it’s only because love scares me too, more than manipulation, because love is a choice I make and not something forced upon me. I trust him, but I don’t trust myself. I must have time to trust myself so I can completely love him. He’s the grenade. I’m the grenade. We’ll blow each other to pieces… Together.

I know who you are,” Jack whispers. “I’ve always known you.” His hands glide up my arms, from the angles of my wrists to the creases of my elbows. He presses his mouth to my left ear—I shiver from his breath. “You’re a force to be reckoned with.

I twist and pin my hair at the nape of my neck, and then stand with legs wide. It’s what Nash told me to do before speaking because men, no matter how many times they profess women are equal, prefer to take direction from bodies like theirs.

It wouldn’t be very ladylike to punch a guy in the balls, but it isn’t very manlike to harass a woman because she has different parts and a sweet face.

Making-out is one thing that won’t change even if civilization fizzles and humanity is reduced to two people. So each time Jack and I kiss, it’s as if we’re flipping off the jerks who destroyed our planet, as if we’re screaming at the top of our lungs… We know your secret. And we won’t be made invisible.

Memories tell me who I was, not who I’ll become. They don’t fix the present any more than they fix the past.

Men tend to treat women as fragile creatures, but our bodies were built to withstand pain and hard work, think with profound insight. We were created to do what men can’t. And if that isn’t reason enough for us to be treated equal, I’m not sure what is.

Missing someone is the worst form of torture because it never goes away no matter where you are or what you do with your life. When a person is gone and all you have of them is a fuzzy recollection of what it was like to hear your phone buzz with texts from them, the joy you experienced while in their company, that instance when the bond you shared shattered, you long for all that was lost and could’ve been gained. You have memories and nothing more. And no matter how much times passes, you still feel the ache of their absence whenever they rise into your thoughts. Torture.

Never has it been inappropriate for a girl to wear a red dress.

Our surroundings fade and we exist in unison, two people who once shared cups of coffee, unprecedentedly ourselves in a changing world.

People have always expected the end of the world to be a dramatic, thematic event: war, disease, a sudden explosion. But what if the end of the world has already occurred? What if our final demise happened slowly, secretly … and we’ve been oblivious to it all?

Sometimes you find a lie, and sometimes it finds you.

Survival is a passive way of saying “my needs are greater than yours.

The apocalypse was supposed to be cliché drama, Godzilla roaming the streets and zombies crawling from graves to devour the living. I guess all of humankind wanted to believe they’d end with a bang instead of unnoticed silence. We all, deep down, want to believe in a future where our historical monuments and literature hold significance. We want our deaths to be important. We want to matter.

There comes a moment when we must choose how we’re going to love someone. Some forms of love leave a sweet memory once they’re gone, others leave scars. But there are forms that when stolen, destroy part of who we are—love that transforms us.

There is only one thing in this world worse than dying and that’s watching someone you love die instead—you feel their pain with no final solace.

The truth is crazier than lies because lies are required to stick to possibilities—the truth isn’t.

The world doesn’t change because the sun sets and rises. We can either adapt to survive our circumstance or we can change it. And I know we can’t control fate, but I’m sure not going to spend whatever time I have left sitting around and waiting for my life to get better.

To cherish my purity and set boundaries are, in my opinion, the highest forms of feminism—a woman who saves her body proves she is strong and secure enough to resist the men who seek to claim her, that she’s more than what lies between her legs.

To describe a kiss is to describe a diary entry or a pair of underwear—each is personal and private, slightly awkward. Very awkward. But necessary.

We didn’t cause the apocalypse…” “But we were too dumb to see it,” she snaps. “That was our mistake.

We know your secret. And we won’t be made invisible.

Welcome to the apocalypse. Where make-do is a motto and life seems wrong, out-of-place. Where the weak become strong because they have no other choice.

What does a freelance researcher do?” “Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.” More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?” “Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.” “Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in-between—well, maybe I care a little. Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.

When you find a truth that surpasses your desire to fit trends and meet approval, you can be certain it’s worth fighting to spread.

You don’t know what love is until you find it,” he whispered, “but when you do, promise me you won’t let it go. Promise you’ll seek it out even when you’re scared it’ll hurt.

You’re different, and I know that’s probably the most cliché response ever given, but it’s the truth. When I look at you, it’s as if I’m reading a novel. No matter how much time I spend studying your pages, there will always be more for me to learn, deeper layers of complexity to baffle me, and plot twists that’ll leave me speechless.

You see the world for what it is and what it could be,” Jack says. “What you don’t see is the gaping chasm in between … and that’s what I found.