“There's always the option of deciding for yourself who you are and what you'll become.”
“Did you have friend?"
"I've read about them, but I don't believe they exist."
"Your cynicism is amazing.”
“I'm not going to waste time being angry about things I can't control. If I only have one life, I should make the most of it.”
“Music overwhelmed me, soaked into my skin like water. I didn’t have words for the squiggles and dashes across the pages, or the way his fingers stretched across the keys to make my heart race. If I could hear only one thing for the rest of my life, this was what I wanted.”
“Simple things are often the most challenging.”
“I think I died to be reborn with you”
“I regret I didn't wear a jacket, or I'd give it to you."
"I still have my wings. It wouldn't fit."
"I'd carry them for you."
"They're attached to the dress. It was the only way I could get them to stay."
He squeezed my hand, tone mischievous. "In that case, I'd be especially happy to carry the wings."
"Sam!"
"It wouldn't be the first time I've seen you without clothes."
"Sam!”
“It's difficult to focus on my studies when my best friend is struggling to get through the hour."
He hesitated. "So I'm your best friend now?"
My cheeks heated, and I shrugged. "It was between you and Sarit, and you have the piano. She just has honey.”
“He held on to me like I was a rock, the only thing keeping him from drifting out with the tide of dark memories.
It was the first time I realized he need me too.”
“Ana, you make me ache in places that aren't even physical.”
“Ana is convinced she can bake anything."
"I can. I'm going to make tarts and you're going to like them."
Stef grinned. "If you need help putting out fires, I'm next door.”
“I only meant the impulsive part."
"I'm a passionate person, that's all."
His mouth turned up in a sly smile.
"If I only get one life, I don't want to waste it by hesitating.”
“I'd give anything to make things right for you." He caressed my cheek, my hair, my back. Everywhere he touched, the angry fires cooled. I wished he'd touch my heart. "But I can't. I can help, but the hard work is all up to you. If you don't feel real, no one else can do it for you. I promise, though you've always felt real to me. From the moment I saw you jump off the cliff."
"Sometimes I feel like I'm still jumping off the cliff.”
“He nodded, brushed hair off my face, and headed from the kitchen.
"I hate being a teenager."
"Why?"
"Hormones." With a sad half smile, he left.”
“I don't want to lose you," he whispered again. "And I didn't want to be lost.”
“you're thinking too hard about how to respond to my stupidity. Have to be polite don't you?”
“My heart wasn't big enough to hold everything I felt, but I couldn't bear the thought of asking him to wait while I caught up.”
“my butterfly dress was visible on the washroom floor, bent and shredded wings and all. Cheeks hot, I remember what he'd suggested before someone shot him.
His eyes found the dress too. "I was teasing about that. Unless you were looking forward to it. Then I meant every word.”
“Thanks to Sam, I was immortal.”
“It wasn’t an easy, sweet kiss like I’d imagined my first would be, but frustrated and hungry. That was good, better than easy and sweet, because after everything, I was frustrated and hungry for him, too.”
“Breathing in the scent of his hair, I realized I'd needed him my whole life, before we even met. First, his music and the way he taught me through books and recordings. Then, he saved my life and refused to abandon me no matter how much I deserved it.”
“You don't listen do you? Go away." ..."You don't listen," he said.
Why wouldn't he just leave? I was going to burn up, anyway, with fire creeping up my arms to consume me. My eyes ached with fresh tears. I hated crying.
"But if you listened," he murmured, "I'd be dead.”
“Who am I?" My first spoken words.
"No one," she said. "Nosoul.”
“I'm surprised no one's come to greet you," Sam murmured.
"Gawk. Not greet.”
“Before I had a chance to feel too sorry for myself, I turned toward the front of the cabin and found the bookcases carved right into the wall. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes rested in dim alcoves. I had no idea what stories or information they held. It didn’t matter. I wanted to absorb anything they had to say.”
“There was no telling if I’d be reborn when I died, but the waltz began and ended with my four notes. He’d built the music around things that reminded him of me. And now this name. My name.”
“His ascent was slow - the blow to the head must have disoriented him worse than he let on - so I went behind, ready to catch him should he lose his balance. Well, I could soften his landing when he hit the floor. Maybe.”
“I've never had a home before." That must have been all the sweets talking; I'd never have told him otherwise. "I mean, staying with Li, I never felt like I belonged. That's all."
Sam touched my wrist, making me shiver. "You always have a home with me.”
“I was an afterthought, five thousand years later. A mistake, because Ciana was gone. I was the dissonant note on the end of a masterpiece symphony. I was the brushstroke that ruined the painting.”
“There was a peal of laughter from the girls. Then, before anyone could say a word, the line was seen to move a fraction. A bite at last! The sage yanked in for all he was worth. The rod crashed into a protruding rock and broke clean in two.”
“Better to suffer the loneliness of the cold throne room than endure the isolation to be found within the crowds of facile courtiers.”
“In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.”
“I can't work in a house where there's saints. The minute there's saints, the devil sends messengers”
“Личността, чието име току-що бе произнесено, професор Адам Круг, философът, седеше малко встрани, потънал в едно кресло, опрял косматите си ръце на подлакътниците. Беше едър тежък човек над четирийсетте, с чорлава, пепелява или леко прошарена коса и грубо изсечено лице, навеждащо на мисълта за недодялан шахматист или навъсен композитор, но по-интелигентно. Силното компактно и мрачно чело, притежаваше някак особено херметично изражение (банков сейф, зид на затвор?), присъщо за челото на всеки мислител. Мозък, съставен от вода, разни химически съединения и група високомодифицирани мазнини. Бледите стоманеносиви очи в почти правоъгълни орбити, полузакрити от гъсти вежди, които някога са ги защитавали от отровните извержения на вече изчезнали птици – хипотезата на Шнайдер. Ушите бяха големи, орбасли с косми отвътре. Носът му бе обрамчен от две дълбоки гънки, спускащи се по широките бузи. Тази сутрин не беше се бръснал. Носеше силно омачкан тъмен костюм и неизменната тъмнолилава папийонка на (някога бели, а сега неопределен цвят) точки, с разкъсана лява вътрешна фльонга. Не особено чистата яка беше от типа отворена, тоест с удобна триъгълна чупка за адамовата ябълка. Носеше характерните обувки с дебели подметки и старомодни черни гети. Какво още? Ах, да – разсеяното почукване с показалец по подлакътника на креслото.
Под тази видима повърхност копринена риза обгръщаше мощния му торс и уморените бедра. Тя бе дълбоко втъкната в наполеонки, които от своя страна бяха напъхани в чорапите: известно му бе за слуховете, че не носи чорапи (оттам и гетите), но това не беше истина; в действителност такива имаше на краката му – хубави, скъпи, бледолилави, копринени.
Под всичко това беше топлата бяла кожа. Мравешка пътека, тесен капилярен керван вървеше нагоре по средата на корема му, за да се прекъсне точно до пъпа. По-тъмна и по-гъста растителност бе разперила крила на гърдите му.
Под това имаше мъртва съпруга и спящо дете.”
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