“Roses and violets from summer gardens, sun-drenched Sicilian lemons squeezed of their juice and mingled with juniper from the frozen north. Saffron threads and gold leaf from the Indies waited to be turned into something magical. And contained deep within all of this was a smile that flooded him with warmth, a pair of blue eyes, and the scent of chocolate...”
“A rich steam rose and he took a sip. Sweetness flooded his tongue, followed by cream, sugar, spices, chocolate finer than anything he had ever tasted, dark and bitter and delicious.”
“Mahogany shelves lined the counters, stacked with glass bottles and jars, like something from a fairy tale. There were whole, plump roses steeping in honey; purple-stained sugar, thick with lavender, tiny jars of crimson threads, cherries and peaches suspended in syrup as if they had fallen there from the trees.
The luxurious scents wrapped around him. 'Butter,' his nose relayed, 'cream, nuts, brandy, chocolate...”
“Obediently, I squash into a corner with a glass of cider. A chalkboard menu declares that the special of the day is stargazy pie. I gulp my drink, envisaging withered fish heads gazing plaintively at the ceiling. In the end, I'm presented with a cheese and pickle sandwich the size of my head and a pile of crisps.”
“The towering stacks of profiteroles, the mille-feuille and champagne creams were banished in favor of the sweet and the simple; pans of clafoutis with preserved cherries, slices of tarte tatin and cups of hot chocolate.”
“I suggest some of this broth that Cook made for Mademoiselle,' came Patrice's muffled voice. 'A little Toulouse sausage, some cheese perhaps...'
Gui wolfed down whatever was put in front of him, hunger a gnawing pit in his stomach. Fresh bread and butter, a savory broth made from chicken, then sausage and a slab of cheese, cake made with pears, milk to drink.”
“He tended to the ovens, but was allowed to help the other chefs for a few hours, warming butter and measuring out orange blossom water to create trays of rich, buttery brioche.”
“As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colors were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of 'creme de violette,' the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.
In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Careme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.
Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.”
“Squeezed into a corner, elbow to elbow, they drank cheap red wine and feasted on bread and oysters, straight from the paper. The food was glorious; it was as if the essence of the world had been captured into this one meal, for this one hour, in this one square of Paris. The boy wondered why it had never tasted this good before. Watching the girl drain her glass, he realized he already knew the answer.”
“There were a thousand noises: spoons clattering, liquid being poured in glugs, a deep, unctuous bubbling from the stove. Heat blasted him in a roar as someone opened an oven. It carried the glorious smell of fresh baking.”
“I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Uncle Jonathan to worry about prostitution being too much for my feminine persuasion, yet think nothing of me seeing a body spliced open before I’d even had my luncheon.”
“He even moved like an animal, fluid strength and surety. And all the devil ever wants in exchange, a small voice said warningly, is a soul.
Oh, puh-lease, Chloe rebuked herself sternly. He's a man, nothing more. A big, beautiful, sometimes scary man, but that's all.
Graceful as a stalking tiger, the big, beautiful, scary man dropped into a crouch on the ground before her, his dark eyes glinting in the shadowy night. They knelt mere inches apart. When he spoke, his words were painstakingly articulated, as if speaking was an immense effort. His words were carefully spaced, tight, coming in rushes, with
pauses between.
"I will give you. Every. Artifact I own. If you kiss. Me and ask no. Questions."
"Huh?" Chloe gaped.
"No questions," he hissed. He shook his head violently, as if trying to scatter something from it.”
“Haven't you ever wondered,' he attempted, 'what good it is for them to be healed, those people that Jesus cures? They're happy at first. But what happens to them after that? What does the blind an think, when he has wanted for years to see, and then looks at his wife in rags and his children covered in sores? That lame man you saw - is he grateful now? Is it worth it to get on his feet and spend the rest of his life dragging burdens like a mule?'
'I never thought of it that way,' said Thacia, her eyes clouding. 'Is that why, do you think, that so many of them aren't cured?”
“It stinks of trains and that chili with the chocolate in it. Ooooh, books!" he exclaimed suddenly, making a beeline for the small library. (Al)”
“What’s a pandemonium?” whispered one of the men in the rear.
“It’s like a calliope,” answered a companion. “I heard one played at the Harmony Fair last summer, when I went there to see my sister’s boy play his organ.”
“His what?”
“His organ.”
“Lord. People pay money to see things like that?”
BookQuoters is a community of passionate readers who enjoy sharing the most meaningful, memorable and interesting quotes from great books. As the world communicates more and more via texts, memes and sound bytes, short but profound quotes from books have become more relevant and important. For some of us a quote becomes a mantra, a goal or a philosophy by which we live. For all of us, quotes are a great way to remember a book and to carry with us the author’s best ideas.
We thoughtfully gather quotes from our favorite books, both classic and current, and choose the ones that are most thought-provoking. Each quote represents a book that is interesting, well written and has potential to enhance the reader’s life. We also accept submissions from our visitors and will select the quotes we feel are most appealing to the BookQuoters community.
Founded in 2023, BookQuoters has quickly become a large and vibrant community of people who share an affinity for books. Books are seen by some as a throwback to a previous world; conversely, gleaning the main ideas of a book via a quote or a quick summary is typical of the Information Age but is a habit disdained by some diehard readers. We feel that we have the best of both worlds at BookQuoters; we read books cover-to-cover but offer you some of the highlights. We hope you’ll join us.