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Some stories begin at the beginning and others begin at the end, but all the best stories begin in a library.
Beware of love that was dishonest and disloyal, love that would lie to you and trick you, love that could break you and condemn you to sorrow, love that could never be trusted.
What was wicked grew with the ferocity of the bramble; cut it down, and it rose up again with even deeper roots.
Seeing has little to do with opening your eyes; it’s what you feel inside that counts, it’s what you know without anyone telling you.
Language was everything. Trust was for fools. Love came and went. Words could be stolen.
too much togetherness was certain to ruin a relationship,
Life was like a book, Jet thought, but one you would never finish. You would never know how people would wind up; the good often suffered and the wicked prospered and there was no explanation for the way in which fate was meted out as there was in novels. Fiction made sense of the world,
each day is ours to live as we see fit.”
Life all happened so quickly; people tell you it will, but you won’t believe it until it happens to you.
Cry all you want, being young will slip through your hands and you will be left standing there, you who were once so young, not recognizing yourself or your life.
Everything has a cost.
If that’s being normal, then normal is madness.
wingbeats
Everything worthwhile is dangerous.
Words were everything, stories were more powerful than any weapon, books changed lives.
There was a ring around the rising moon, a sign of trouble to come.
What wouldn’t I do for love?
Language was everything. Trust was for fools. Love came and went. Words could be stolen.
Know what you want, and be sure of it, for regret gives birth to more regret and nothing more.
Never love someone who cannot love you back,
Where there were lilacs there would be luck.
Love
What you wind up regretting aren’t the things you do, it’s what you
don’t do that you will never forgive yourself for.
You could live a little or you could live a lot.
There was no one as easy to fool as an expert,
devotion, an offering from the age of Achilles, a practice of warrior women from the beginning of time so they could not be dragged away by their hair.
“Live a little?” It was an old joke between them. “Darling boy.” Franny put her hand to his heart. He most certainly wasn’t done yet. “Live a lot.”
You did everything right, my dear brother. Live a lot.
Write what you must, write what you will leave behind, write magic.
Like any witch, Franny could smell water.
Love was inside every story. Love lost and love found, red love that stained your heart, the darkest love that twisted into despair or revenge, love everlasting, love that was true. You carried love with you wherever you went.
Harm no one. Know that what you give to the world will come back to you threefold. Fall in love whenever you can.
In every generation there was someone who stayed,
who planted the garden early in the spring, and kept the bees, and switched on the porch light at twilight so the neighbors knew they were welcome to come for cures and elixirs.
Some people vow that a book contains the soul of the writer, and often the best ones are written by those who have no voice, yet still have a story to tell.
Know that language is everything. Never give your words away.
Live a lot.
This was the fate she had chosen.
Sometimes you don’t know how lucky you are until the time has passed you by.
Read as many books as you can. Choose courage over caution. Take time to visit libraries. Look for light in the darkness. Have faith
