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Quentin knew he wasn’t happy. Why not? He had painstakingly assembled all the ingredients of happiness. He had performed all the necessary rituals, spoken the words, lit the candles, made the sacrifices. But happiness, like a disobedient spirit, refused to come. He couldn’t think what else to do.
In Fillory things mattered in a way they didn’t in this world. In Fillory you felt the appropriate emotions when things happened. Happiness was a real, actual, achievable possibility. It came when you called. Or no, it never left you in the first place.
“First things first: magic is real. But you’ve probably already gotten that far.”
Some people need their families to become who they’re supposed to be. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But there are other ways to do it.”
Once magic was real everything else just seemed so unreal.
“An it harm none, do what you will.”
That guy was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and crudely stapled to a ticking fucking time bomb. He was either going to hit somebody or start a blog.
She tortured everybody around her, but only because she was more tortured than anyone.
