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Truth does not erode, nor forgive any debt. A child may recall what her father would forget. —I Sip a Cup of Wind by Jumet
Some men seem to think that temperance is preservative, that moderation somehow pickles the soul. They would place their beating hearts inside jam jars if they could. Which does beg the question, what on earth are they saving themselves for?
Wallflowers are harmless. They are pretty things that stand in corners with a pleasant look on their face. It’s the wall-weeds I can’t stand. They moan about the mantles, mope upon the sofas, and pout about the punch bowls, waiting to be asked, “Are you all right? You look so sad.” Wall-weeds will linger for hours if you let them. And the only thing that seems to drive them away is other people’s happiness.
I weep for you who were not present, because you must depend upon the faint notes of my fair words to hear the epiphany that resounded in those rooms. If her playing was a quarrel, her voice was a perfect reconciliation. She sang like a mermaid. Her voice enticed the deserters back from the cloakroom. It made men recant their excuses and women cancel their good-night kisses. They flocked to this mermaid like doomed sailors, and the ship of our evening was dashed upon her song.
The Tower is a pestle grinding upon the mortar of the earth. It pulverizes bones, fortunes, kings, love, youth, and beauty. That is its purpose—to crush.
“All I know is that, at the end of the day, dreams don’t matter, but neither does regret. We aren’t what we want or wish for. We are only what we do.”
discover: Intimacy was not about maintaining the idealistic charade of courtship; it was about embracing and adoring the flaws, the very things that the headmaster of Isaugh had never been quite able to admit in himself.
Why do we call a dishonest person two-faced? Is it really so honest to wear the same face day in, day out, regardless of our mood, our condition, or the event? We are not clocks! Have a face for every occasion, I say! Be honest: Wear a mask.”
If you want to read her future, don’t peer at a young lady’s tea leaves or probe the lumps on her head. No, look to her table manners. I can observe a girl eat a fig, and afterward, tell you whether she will grow up to be a marchioness or a mudlark.
customs exist for two reasons: one, to identify insiders; and two, to exclude outsiders. That’s why they’re so tricky and picky and peculiar.
“Because that’s the benefit of etiquette: It tells us what to do when no one knows what to do.”
No. 81: Because youth is fleeting and cannot be savored in retrospect. No. 82: Because your enemy has RSVP’d, and you wish to make a scene. —101 Reasons to Attend My Party
I have seen men pierced by a wink and women gored by the cut of an eye. The gaze is a martial art.
Only people who go to bed early believe in happy endings. We night owls understand that happiness does not dwell in finales. It resides in anticipation, in revelry, and in worn-out welcomes. Endings are always sad.
An unexpected knock on my apartment door is as welcome as the drums of an invading army.
The rich “learn lessons.” The poor commit crimes. “Mistakes” are generally considered a mark of the middle class.
The Sphinx had gone to some pains to elaborate upon the exact proportion of their despair, assuring Edith that should the medium in the reservoir degrade, the resulting explosion would be enough to fill the entire valley with a fireball so intense it would liquefy the ground down to the bedrock. The Tower would simply cease to be, along with every man, woman, and child inside it. The sky would go black. An impenetrable winter would settle upon the land. The nation of Ur would be ravaged by famine. And in the span of a generation, the epilogue of human history would be written on the wall of a
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If you lie loud and long enough, it eventually becomes the truth.
The mob does two things well: nothing and revolution.
As soon as the doorman invited them in, Haste began directing the king’s staff. “We’ll need a pitcher of gin punch, two cigars, and two of whatever His Majesty had for breakfast. And we’re not sitting on these ottomans, either. You have a hundred rooms. Find us one with some proper furniture.” The butler and his footmen seemed unperturbed by Haste’s manner, and all of her wishes were granted in short order. Soon, Edith found herself sitting in a plush chair before a freshly built fire with a cut crystal goblet full of rosy punch in her hand. She had refused the cigar, which Haste didn’t mind
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‘Asking nicely once is polite. Asking nicely twice is just begging.’”
“War is for defending ideals, not exercising them.”
The hods are the blood of the Tower, yet they are treated like a cancer.”
The inability to compromise isn’t a sign of moral rectitude”—she spoke the phrase with haughty emphasis—“it’s a sign of immaturity. You know who can’t be bargained with? Little children and madmen.”
Marat wants.” She tapped the words out on the table as she spoke them: “He wants to overthrow so that he can reign. He doesn’t care if he presides over the Tower or its rubble. He just wants to rule. I met the man. I heard his patter. He’s a silver-tongued scoundrel who would kill you, me, and everyone in this ringdom to get what he wants.”
Sometimes a wheel squeaks not because it is faulty but because it bears the most weight.
Memory is not like a box of stationery—easy to browse, reorder, and read. No, memories accumulate like leaves upon the forest floor. They are irregular and fragile. They crumble and break upon inspection. They turn to soil the deeper you go.
“Oh, I’m not the Hod King! No, no, I’m Hodder Luc to my friends and Marat to my enemies. No, the Hod King is there.” He pointed back down the borehole at the dormant siege engine. Seeming to sense the surprise of his guests, Marat explained, “Or I should say, that will be the Hod King once it’s fully crewed.” “I don’t understand. Our king is a machine?” Goll said.
“Not quite. Have you ever heard of a rat king?” When the newcomers shook their heads, Marat continued, “Sometimes when rats are forced to live in too small a space, their tails become entangled, and those tangles become knots. The rats who find they have become entwined with their brothers and sisters are presented then with a choice: They can learn to think, coordinate, and work as one, or they can die as one. That is a rat king.”
