But now I remember, of course, I'm never going to be old.

— Sara Baume

. . . Buzzed up by the knowledge that none of my family knew where I was, who I was with nor when I'd be home again. I didn't even know exactly who I was with or when I'd be home again or where home really was anymore.

— Sara Baume

Did it do me any good, early in life, to believe so many things which were not true? Or did it damage me? Pouring a foundation of disappointment, of uncertainty.

— Sara Baume

How easy to be electrocuted. How fine the line between beauty and peril.

— Sara Baume

How I adored to draw as a child, a teen; all my life before I began to try and shape a career out of it.

— Sara Baume

I can't remember the name of the piece, or the artist. Maybe it wasn't even an artwork. Why must I automatically assume that every strange object is a sculpture, that every public display of unorthodox behavior is an act of performance.

— Sara Baume

I decided that if I didn't allow myself to fall asleep, then I wouldn't have to wake up again and despair.

— Sara Baume

I know with unqualified certainty that I want to die. But I also know with equivalent certainty that I won't do anything about it. That I will only remain here and wait for death to indulge me.

— Sara Baume

I lie down and think about how this whole long, strange summer ought to end in a substantial event. But, probably, won't. For the first time I acknowledge the possibility that nothing will die, or change, or even happen.

— Sara Baume

I look at the cake in my mother's arms and think: here stands the only person in the whole world who'd go to such trouble for fractious, ungrateful me.

— Sara Baume