Go Tell the Bees that I Am Gone (Outlander, #9)

by Diana Gabaldon

“No man owns his own life,” he said. “Part of you is always in someone else’s hands. All ye can do is hope it’s mostly God’s hands you’re in.”

“Bless Thou, O God, the dwelling,” he said, “And each who rests herein this night; Bless Thou, O God, my beloved ones In every place wherein they sleep; In the night that is to-night, And every night; In the day that is to-day, And every day. May this sacred iron be witness To the love of God and the guarding of this house.”

“WHAT IS NOT GOOD FOR THE SWARM IS NOT GOOD FOR THE BEE” (MARCUS AURELIUS)

“Bees are real sociable,” Myers explained, and blew one of them gently off the back of his hand. “And they’re curious, which only makes sense, them goin’ back and forth and gatherin’ news with their pollen. So you tell ’em what’s happening—if someone’s come a-visitin’, if a new babe’s been born, if anybody new was to settle or a settler depart—or die. See, if somebody leaves or dies,” he explained, brushing a bee off my shoulder, “and you don’t tell the bees, they take offense, and the whole lot of ’em will fly right off.”

voulez-vous coucher avec moi

“But each one of us is called to live our lives in the smaller moments; to do kindness, to risk our feelings, to take a chance on someone else, to meet the needs of the people we care for. Because God is everywhere, and lives in all of us. Those small moments are His. And He will make of those small things glory…and let His…greatness…shine in…in you.”

“My body is out from my control,” he said softly. “She was the half of my body—the very half of my soul.”

“Ye dinna stop loving someone just because they’re deid,” she said reprovingly. “I canna suppose they stop lovin’ you, either.”

keek

“J’ai connu une jeune fille de ce nom Amélie,” Fergus said. “Mais elle est morte.”

“Les enfants savent qu’il ne faut rien toucher près de la porte,” he said matter-of-factly. He took a deep, slow breath and shook his head at the door. “This is—” His lips tightened and he glanced at Roger. “You know—milady and milord told you, I expect. What…happened to our little one. Henri-Christian.”

the music of a single fiddle still sang to the stars.

David William Ian Fraser MacKenzie