Greywaren (Dreamer Trilogy, #3)

by Maggie Stiefvater

She had a face like a poem and a smile like a punch line.

Look at that poor asshole lying on that packed dirt, look how lovingly tattooed his skin was, each mark a small confirmation that even though it felt like he hated his life and his body, deep down, he wanted to keep it, to redecorate the place to his own liking.

You were, like, the place I stored all the reality in.

Love was one of this species’ weapons. It had so many hooks: the knowledge it was conditional, the desire to believe it was real.

Ronan was very comforted by a god, capital G. The world got more and more senseless as he grew, with rules seeming to contradict each other left and right, but the knowledge that there was someone out there who knew how it all fit together was relieving.

They were so aggressively ugly that they came right back around to nearly being art.

“You’re sort of a funny person,” Matthew told him. “You know a lot of stuff but you’re also pretty stupid.”

BAHA MATTHEW PLZ

There was a strange sort of magic to being a person holding another person after not being held by someone for a long time.

Magic. It’s a cheap word now. Put a quarter in the slot and get a magic trick for you and your friends. Most people don’t remember what it is. It is not cutting a person in half and pulling a rabbit out. It is not sliding a card from your sleeve. It’s not are you watching closely? If you’ve ever looked into a fire and been unable to look away, it’s that. If you’ve ever looked at the mountains and found you’re not breathing, it’s that. If you’ve ever looked at the moon and felt tears in your eyes, it’s that. It’s the stuff between stars, the space between roots, the thing that makes electricity get up in the morning.

The stars moved overhead. The world felt enormous, both past and future, with their slender present hovering in the middle. It was all very good.