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People who say “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” don’t understand how words can be stones, hard and sharp-edged and dangerous and capable of doing so much more harm than anything physical.
the final nail in the coffin they’ve been building between them, to bury love with honors.)
Heredity is not only in blood. It is in the sympathetic vibration of the universe, in the places where atom becomes alchemy.
You can’t skip to the end of the story just because you’re tired of being in the middle.
They are a predatory race by nature, these children of the golden mean, terrified of their edges being dulled by the world, measuring the love of their parents against the number of perfect scores they can achieve.
Dodger points and Roger hangs, paper chains and popcorn strings.
Boring, balding, hidebound old men don’t deserve to change the universe. They think they do, but boring, balding, hidebound old men have always believed they deserve absolutely everything.
“I love you.” They don’t say that as often as they should, because it’s an odd love, philia and agape and distance and time. It doesn’t fit the modern definitions. Neither do they.
Every city is the Impossible City, when a savior is needed badly enough.
all any civilization is, really, is a string of ideas tied together in a shining cord, tangled sometimes, frayed, but continuous and beautiful, even when it’s not).
