Book Title Quotes

Quotes tagged as "book-title" Showing 1-30 of 38
William Shakespeare
“Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow...a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth

John Green
“The Side Effects of Dying in Your Pants isn't really funny… Alright, it's a little funny.”
John Green

Enock Maregesi
“Lengo la jina la kitabu ni kuishawishi hadhira kusoma dibaji, na lengo la dibaji ni kuishawishi hadhira kusoma salio la kitabu kizima.”
Enock Maregesi

Bethany Atazadeh
“When you boil it down, a book title is a business decision.”
Bethany Atazadeh, How Your Book Sells Itself

Elizabeth Lim
“Her sword weighed heavily in her hand. She stared at the polished blade, wondering if its reflection would be the last sight she ever caught of herself. Would she die as Ping, the Fa son she'd made up so she could join the army in her father's place? If she died here, in the middle of this snow-covered mountain pass, she'd never see her father or her family again.
Mulan swallowed hard. Who would believe that only a few months ago, her biggest concern had been impressing the Matchmaker? She could barely remember the girl she'd been back then. She'd worn layer upon layer of silk, not plates of armor, her waist cinched tightly with a satin sash instead of sore from carrying a belt of weapons. Her lips had been painted with rouge instead of chapped from cold and lack of water, her lashes highlighted with coal that she now could only dream of using to fuel a fire for warmth.
How far she'd come from that girl to who she was now: a soldier in the Imperial army.
Maybe serving her country as a warrior was truer to her heart than being a bride. Yet when she saw her reflection in her sword, she knew she was still pretending to be someone else.”
Elizabeth Lim, Reflection

Jen Calonita
“Elsa walked to her desk and looked down at the small porcelain jar and candlestick. She had been using them as stand-ins for the orb and scepter she would have to hold, like her father did during his coronation. As she had many times before, Elsa closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself inside the chapel where the ceremony would take place. She thought of the choir that would be singing in the balcony, and she could see the pulpit she would be standing at in front of the priest and all her people, as well as nobles and visiting dignitaries. With no family, she'd be up there alone. Elsa tried not to think about that as she imagined the priest placing the jeweled tiara on her head. Then he'd hold out the pillow with the orb and scepter for her to take. She couldn't wear her teal gloves during that portion of the ceremony, so she removed them for practice. She wore gloves all the time these days. Perhaps it was silly, but she thought the gloves helped her conceal her magic. This was her battle cry: Conceal it. Don't feel it. Don't let it show.”
Jen Calonita, Conceal, Don't Feel

Elizabeth Lim
“I'm ready," she whispered, her stomach fluttering as soon as the words left her.
Charles looked at her, the light in his eyes wavering. "Then-"
"Yes," she spoke over him. "I accept."
He drew her close, holding both her hands and bringing them to his lips.
Wishing this moment could last forever, she leaned against the prince's shoulder. At last, she knew.
So this was love.”
Elizabeth Lim, So This is Love

Delia Owens
“Ma was isolated and alone. Under those circumstances people behave differently.
Kya made a soft groan. “Please don't talk to me about isolation. No one has to tell me how it changes a person. I have lived it. I am isolation," Kya whispered with a slight edge. "I forgive Ma for leaving. But I don't understand why she didn't come back- why she abandoned me. You probably don't remember, but after she walked away, you told me that a she-fox will sometimes leave her kits if she's starving or under some other extreme stress. The kits die- as they probably would have anyway- but the vixen lives to breed again when conditions are better, when she can raise a new litter to maturity.
"I've read a lot about this since. In nature- out yonder where the crawdads sing- these ruthless-seeming behaviors actually increase the mother's number of young over her lifetime, and thus her genes for abandoning offspring in times of stress are passed on to the next generation. And on and on. It happens in humans, too. Some behaviors that seem harsh to us now ensured the survival of early man in whatever swamp he was in at the time. Without them, we wouldn't be here. We still store those instincts in our genes, and they express themselves when certain circumstances prevail. Some parts of us will always be what we were, what we had to be to survive- way back yonder.”
Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

Cecilia Galante
“And now that it's reached 1660 degrees, I can salt glaze it."
"What's that?"
Aiden held up the bowl. "Watch." He pinched a small amount of salt between his fingers and deposited it through a hole at the top of the kiln. There were actually many holes along the rim, tiny rectangular openings, and Aiden moved from one to the next, sprinkling fingerfuls of salt through them. "Salt does amazing things to clay," he said. "The crystals actually explode when they hit the heat, and then turn into a vapor. It's the vapor that transforms the look of the clay."
"How?" I asked. "What's it do?"
"It makes the clay glossy, and the surface gets this sort of orange-peel texture. But the really cool thing about salt glazing is that no two pieces ever look the same. Each one is completely unique, depending on how much or how little salt you use.”
Cecilia Galante, The Sweetness of Salt

Jessica Soffer
“Those are juice glasses," she said. I smiled.
"Right," I said. "This is how we drank it in Baghdad."
I put down the steaming glass in front of her and wrapped the oven mitt around the bowl of bamia and brought that too, smelling it on the way.
"Heaven," I said.
I watched her as she ate until I caught myself.
"I haven't made this in years," I said.
Lorca lifted her shoulders, cocked her head, asking why.
"I don't know," I said. "I should have. There's a saying in Arabic: Bukra fil mish mish. 'Tomorrow, when the apricots bloom.' Or, in other words, maybe tomorrow. I kept thinking that. I'd do it tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow."
I was thinking of Lorca, of cooking again. But I thought of Joseph too. No more tomorrows with him.”
Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

Susanna Kearsley
“Benjamin had come here often as a boy to chase his dreams of grand adventure, studying the passing ships so that he could, like Joseph, know the types of vessels by their varied shapes and rigging, be they brigs or sloops or bilanders or snows. He'd watched them for so long that he could name most of the New York ships on sight, amazing Lydia, who only recognized her brother William's four: the Bellewther, the Honest John, the Katharine, and the Fox.
Of these, her favorite was the Bellewether, because although the smallest of them all it was the prettiest and swiftest.
"She will run before all the others," had been William's explanation of the sloop's name. "Like the sheep we bell to lead the flock."
"You've spelled it wrong," their mother had said mildly as she'd read the brave name painted on the hull. "It is spelled 'bellwether,' without the second e."
"But 'belle,' is French for 'beautiful,' and she is surely that," had been his answer.”
Susanna Kearsley, Bellewether

Melissa  Ford
“The name of my blog was already Life from Scratch, and the food became a natural extension. It turned out that writing about food was the perfect jumping board to discussing the rest of my life too. If nothing interesting was happening, I could talk about how I learned to roast potatoes (the trick: put the cubed potatoes in a bag; splash in the olive oil, salt, rosemary, and garlic powder; and then shake to coat each potato evenly.)”
Melissa Ford, Life From Scratch

Meredith Mileti
“Inside the bag are a couple dozen hazelnut cookies and a small plastic bag filled with what looks like mouse droppings. I open the package and drop a couple onto my tongue. They taste a little like chocolate, deeply flavored, thick, and somewhat bitter. But the aftertaste is something entirely different, sweeter, fuller, and much more complex, something you couldn't have predicted from their first gustatory impression.”
Meredith Mileti, Aftertaste: A Novel in Five Courses

Jennie Shortridge
“The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It's been so long since I've been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day.
By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I'm glad the store is nearly empty; I'm oohing and aahing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves.
I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It's berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket.
The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven't I eaten a salad in so long? I'll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d'oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I'm sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be.”
Jennie Shortridge, Eating Heaven

Bethany Atazadeh
“When you boil it down, a title is a business decision.”
Bethany Atazadeh, How Your Book Sells Itself

Lisa Kleypas
“There was only the memory of Cassandra's sweet, yielding mouth, the lush curves of her body molding perfectly to his. Like a melody that kept repeating itself throughout a symphony, she was his idée fixe, haunting him whether dreaming or awake.
Everything demanded that he chase Cassandra, do whatever was necessary to win her. But if he succeeded, he would destroy everything that made her worth having.”
Lisa Kleypas, Chasing Cassandra

Jill Eileen Smith
“You are Esther now, a Persian star, and you will shine like the dawn in the king's palace.”
Jill Eileen Smith, Star of Persia: Esther's Story

Kate Morton
“When she was starting out as an actress, a well-known director had leaned over his script, straightened his Coke-bottle glasses, and told Laurel she hadn't the looks to play leading roles. The advice had stung, and she'd wailed and railed, and then spent hours catching herself accidentally on purpose in the mirror before hacking her long hair short in the grip of drunken bravura. But it had proven a "moment" in her career. She was a character actress. The director cast her as the leading lady's sister, and she garnered her first rave reviews. People marveled at her ability to build characters from the inside out, to submerge herself and disappear beneath the skin of another person, but there was no trick to it; she merely bothered to learn the character's secrets. Laurel knew quite a bit about keeping secrets. She also knew that was where the real people were found, hiding behind their black spots.”
Kate Morton, The Secret Keeper

Kate Morton
“Laurel had been thinking a lot lately about secrets, about how difficult they were to keep, and the habit they had of lurking quietly beneath the surface before sneaking all of a sudden through a crack in their keeper's resolve.”
Kate Morton, The Secret Keeper

Anne Østby
“We're going to start making chocolate," she says. "Our own recipe. The taste of Fiji. Pure and simple. Pieces of happiness."
Her voice when she says it- suddenly it dawns on me, a bittersweet realization. Ingrid finally knows a thing or two about happiness. The dark, succulent kind, the kind you stake your claim to.”
Anne Østby, Pieces of Happiness: A Novel of Friendship, Hope and Chocolate

Delia Owens
“Jumpin' said the Social Services are lookin' for me. I'm scared they'll pull me in like a trout, put me in a foster home or sump'm."
"Well, we better hide away out there where the crawdads sing. I pity any foster parents who take you on." Tate's whole face smiled.
"What d'ya mean, where the crawdads sing? Ma used to say that." Kya remembered Ma always encouraging her to explore the marsh: "Go as far as you can- way out yonder where the crawdads sing."
"Just means far in the bush where critters are wild, still behaving like critters.”
Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

Liz Braswell
“This other Alice, this Wonderland Alice, on the other side of the glass, was someone very different.
She had dark hair, for one; stringy, long, unkempt. The rest of her features were hard to distinguish because a thick, ratty white blindfold was tied around her head. Streaked and streaming down her cheeks from beneath it was thick black blood. Her lips were cracked and also bleeding, her bare neck and shoulders smudged with dirt.
Alice swallowed. She had never seen anything like it. Even at the theater the blood was bright red and flowed easily and didn't cake up so. This was not a tableau; this was not fake blood. It was all too real- like something out of a scene of war, of a horror story, of a nightmare worse than any Alice ever had.
And then the picture moved.
Suddenly the other Alice was either screaming or grinning- impossible to tell which with her teeth outlined in more blood, her lips pulled away from them. She was holding up a banner that was delicately penned despite the poverty of her apparent surroundings.

Liz Braswell, Unbirthday

Beth Harbison
“But she stopped at the third picture, a gorgeous baking tray of golden buttery-topped tiropetes, with a bowl on the side of bright-colored Greek salad with what appeared to be fresh oregano.
It had popped up because she was following #bethesdafood scene.
The caption, written by BoozyCrocker, said:

BoozyCrocker MUST EAT BUTTER. #TheCookbookClub is now open to new members. Foodies, come join us! Three-drink minimum. No skipping dessert. Meet in Bethesda. DM me. No psychos, no diets. #foodporn #saycheese #cheese #feta #musteatbutter #delicious #whenindoubtaddbutter #bethesdafoodscene”
Beth Harbison, The Cookbook Club: A Novel of Food and Friendship

Mindy Friddle
“But it was the broken statue in the corner that drew Elizabeth's attention: a seraphim in despair leaned casually there against the back gate.
"That's Beulah," said Cutter, following her gaze. "Well, for Beulah. Beulah was my great-grandmother and the angel was there on her grave till the storm of sixty-eight knocked her over. She's my garden angel."
"Your garden angel?"
"When I was about seven or so, I heard about guardian angels, how everyone's supposed to have one. Only I heard it garden angel. And I thought of Beulah's angel in the dead garden. I knew she was my garden angel."
Cutter's hands fluttered over the statue, her touch reverent, light, brushing off leaves, stroking the stone face, like feeling the forehead of a feverish child. Moving closer, Elizabeth saw that Beulah was not in despair after all. She was just waking up, maybe, shaking off an afternoon doze, one arm thrown over her face, a dimple in the elbow of a plump arm, her mighty wings curled around her body like wilted leaves.
"I can't tell you how many times I've thought of her before exams, my driver's test, job interviews, even when Gran died. I close my eyes and picture her and I know things will be all right. At least they seem better.”
Mindy Friddle, The Garden Angel

Alex Brunkhorst
“There was something about those birds in the glass aviary that was foreboding and sad. They could fly, but they had no sky. The one who had escaped- the homing pigeon- was mourned, but shouldn't he have been celebrated? He had freedom; he had escaped his predictable route between Malibu and Bel-Air and was now flying in bigger and brighter skies, with a flight plan that was spontaneous and new.
And then there was the girl: I had forced myself to forget her but was only successful for an hour or two, and then she would creep back in, the way a spider returns to a musty corner of a room to spin her web.”
Alex Brunkhorst, The Gilded Life of Matilda Duplaine

Alex Brunkhorst
“Just then, the reel snapped off the projector and the screen went black. We stood under the chandelier for one last moment. It cast stars on the floor below us, and we were surrounded by so much velvet I felt like a diamond nestled in a jewel box. But the stars weren't real, and I wasn't a gem. In fact, it was only then that I realized that pretty much everything about the gilded life of Matilda Duplaine was make-believe.”
Alex Brunkhorst, The Gilded Life of Matilda Duplaine

Margot Berwin
“It had a strange scent, dual in nature. It was dark, like death by fire, and very light, like sunshine and freedom. I felt as if I could choose the side I wanted to be on. As if the perfume were asking me: Evangeline, are you darkness or are you light?
I put the stopper itself to my nose. The power of it made me sit down on my dead grandmother's bed. Straight from the vial, the layers were less abstract, and more distinct. There was jasmine from the south of India, and red velvet roses molting on the vine. Further down there was the unmistakable scent of leather warmed by a slow-burning fire.
But still, there was something else in the perfume that I could not name. I inhaled many times in an attempt to understand it, and although I couldn't I knew without a doubt that it was the most important ingredient in the vial. If I had to describe it, I'd say it was the scent of darkness.”
Margot Berwin, Scent of Darkness

Laekan Zea Kemp
“What's the voice telling you now?" Chloe says.
I pluck the thought like a poison berry and force it to my lips. "That I can't do this."
Chloe tightens her grip on me. "And what do you say back?"
Another thought blooms on my lips, the taste this time somewhere between bitter and sweet. "That I will.”
Laekan Zea Kemp, Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

“she could sell in the café provisions she baked in her own time with a shelf life longer than pastries. When she thought of it there had been a rush of certainty she could do it, and a prickling of pride in having conceived a way to make money on her own. It would double at least what she was making now. Without Nicholas it might never had occurred to her. The other day he had stuck a label, which he had found in the junk drawer, on a plastic-wrapped loaf of banana bread. He wrote on the label with a marker, "From the Summer Kitchen Bakery." She had found the gesture adorable at the time and hugged him, but something about it had evidently started percolating in the recesses of her mind, and now she was lapping at the brew like someone tasting it for the first time and wondering how she had never before tasted such ambition. She was thinking of cellophane-packaged chocolate brownies and caramel blondies and orange-and-almond biscotti and pear and oat slices and butter shortbread and Belgian chocolate truffles, marmalades, chutney, relishes, and jellies beautified in jars with black-and-white gingham hats and black-and-white ribbon tied above skirted brims. She could even sell a muesli mix she had developed, full of organic cranberries and nuts and the zest of unwaxed lemons. And she wouldn't change Nicholas's label at all. A child's handwriting impressed that the goods were homemade. She would have his design printed professionally, in black and white, too, old world, like the summer kitchen itself.”
Karen Weinreb, The Summer Kitchen

Lisa Kleypas
“The devil never tries to make people do the wrong thing by scaring them. He tempts them."
Merritt's forced laugh came out as brittle as overcooked toffee. "Dear, are you claiming Mr. MacRae is the devil in disguise?"
"If he were," Luke replied quietly, "I'd say the disguise has been pretty damned successful so far.”
Lisa Kleypas, Devil in Disguise

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