More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“This is a love story to its blade-dented bone.”
It all seemed at once both profound and irrelevant. Some frivolous grandeur.
have lived a long time,” she said. “And the longer I live, the more it surprises me, and saddens me, how wise the young must become to live in this world.”
From far away, the laughter was a crackle of noise, like some distant fireworks lit in honor of a hero’s passing—and up close, it was almost overwhelming, a bright and wincing joy that would make one realize there is no correct way to shake hands with pain.
Blame is an endless circle.
I had seen what happened to all of those sons I gave birth to. How they were molded by the world they had been given, for even the man who had started it all did not know why he made the choices he did. It is all a spiral that feeds into itself with the gathering weight at the center we call Power.
The stories are everywhere, you cannot avoid them. Every day you tell a story to yourself; the details of your day become a part of your myth. It is reordered. It is made sense of.
The body holds the body. The arms hold the spear. And the spear cuts through water.
