“Katherine," he said. He was still smiling.
"Yes." She leaned closer.
"Katherine..."
"Yes, Damon?"
"Go to hell.”
“Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn about anyone else”
“Damon’s voice was no louder than before. “Get away from my brother.” Bonnie could feel it inside him, a swell of Power like a tsunami. He continued, “Before I tear your heart out.”
“He put an arm around his brother to help him up. And then, for a moment, he just held on.”
“And this is how the ending starts.”
“I'm sorry Elena. I know that you want to help, but put yourself in her shoes, everything that happened tonight was to save you and that's OK because she loves you so much. But somehow she's always the one who gets hurt.”
“Damon: Come back as a vampire and I will stake you myself cause I can't stand the idea of you hating me forever.
Elena: Witches are supposed to maintain the balance of nature. It's your duty to them. To keep this curse sealed.”
“And who am i? Do you know who i am?"
She smiled up at him, showing him her pointed teeth. "Of course i do. You're Damon and I love you.”
“What kind of world is it that lets a thing like that happen? That lets a girl like Sue get murdered for kicks, or kids in Afghanistan starve, or baby seals get skinned alive?
-Matt Honeycutt”
“For the more a man has in himself, the less he will want from other people,—the less, indeed, other people can be to him. This is why a high degree of intellect tends to make a man unsocial. True,”
“Our beliefs inevitably solidify to be the only truth and reality that we know, which puts a greater distance between us and anyone whose beliefs are different.”
“Lena's real mom, Emily, knew that this was not the truth, but she also knew that Vaclav was not lying.
Vaclav knew that he was telling the truth.
Lena knew that it was a lie, but she loved it and believed it, like a fairy tale, like a song, like a bedtime story, like a magic trick.
She loved Vaclav until it became the truth and so it was.”
“But the scent of my father's hate could not be washed entirely away. It clung to my skin, a faint rotten spell.”
“The poetic image […] is not an echo of the past. On the contrary: through the brilliance of any image, the distant past resounds with echoes.”
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