ro > ro's Quotes

“PS. I write to you in stings, Red, but this is me, the truth of me, as I do so: broken open by the act, in the palm of your hand, dying.”
― Amal El-Mohtar, This Is How You Lose the Time War

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”
― George Orwell, 1984

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I'll write it in waves. In skies. In my heart. You'll never see, but you will know. I'll be all the poets, I'll kill them all and take each one's place in turn, and every time love's written in all the strands it will be to you.”
― Amal El-Mohtar, This Is How You Lose the Time War

“What is the point, she thinks, of loving something you are doomed to lose? Of holding on to someone who cannot hold on to you?”
― V.E. Schwab, Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

“We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.”
― Stephen King, Coffey on the Mile

“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

“Stories happen only to those who are able to tell them, someone once said. In the same way, perhaps, experiences present themselves only to those who are able to have them.”
― Paul Auster, The Locked Room

“It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit.”
― Noël Coward, Blithe Spirit

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“No sign, so far, of anything sinister—but I live in hope.”
― Agatha Christie, Cat Among the Pigeons

“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

“Ya no deseaba estar muerto. Al mismo tiempo, no se puede decir que se alegrara de estar vivo, pero por lo menos no le molestaba. Estaba vivo, y la persistencia de este hecho había empezado poco a poco a fascinarle, como si hubiera conseguido sobrevivirse, como si en cierto modo estuviera viviendo una vida póstuma. Ya no dormía con la lámpara encendida y desde hacía muchos meses no recordaba ninguno de sus sueños.”
― Paul Auster, City of Glass