This Vicious Grace

She might be but one stitch in the tapestry, but every stitch had a purpose, and threads couldn't become art without them.

Cry. Rage. You deserve to. You’re angry, and you should be, but you get to choose whether it will make you bitter or make you better.

Keep your gods and goddesses on their pedestals if you want, but the rituals, the rules, the isolation? You know that isn’t really from them, right? That’s written by mortals. Men, mostly. We have a bad habit of locking up people who scare us, and the thing that scares men with power most is a woman with more of it.

the thing that scares men with power most is a woman with more of it.

How cruel, that sharing someone else's grief did nothing to alleviate it for them. In physics, there were rules and forces, equal and opposite reactions, a balance. But emotions didn’t obey rules, and though sympathy settled over her like a blanket, it did nothing to help him. … Even her hands, which stole power, strength, and life itself. Were powerless to siphon off any of his suffering.

I supposed I’ll let you put your clothes on now.” He snorted. “Like you could stop me.” “I could kill you with my pinky.” “I’m shaking.

And you keep saying you aren't the hero." "I'm not. You're the hero. I'm just asking a girl to hold my hand.

Justice. There was no justice in putting someone on trial for what they were, not what they’d done.

She thought she'd sampled every flavor of loneliness, but this one was new. She should have felt less lonely, not more, but like flame appears brighter in the darkness, her isolation cut even deeper with a stranger filling spaces usually left empty.

She wanted to rip down the sky and shred it with her fingernails, to pluck every star from the fabric of heavens until fathomless darkness matched the void inside her.

Sympathy, kindness, love, and friendship—all those precious human experiences that made for a full life—those were for other people, not her.

A poor man lacks many things, but a greedy man lacks them all.

I can tell you, it's always better to get something unpleasant over with quickly. Drawing out the wait only makes it worse.

Ever since you called yourself stale bread, I've had wicked cravings." He paused, shook his head, then pushed back up. "I adore bread. Especially baguettes. Long, thick, hot and slathered with—" He hit the ground, shaking with laughter. "Enough. Mercy. You're a champion of lewd baking metaphors.

The bridge to understanding is constructed of words.

If you have no preference, how do you choose? You ask a lot of questions. You give insufficient answers.

Her nerves vibrated hard enough to shatter her bones while she composed an elaborate mental fantasy of ripping the book out of his hands and throwing it, just to hear it hit the wall. Anything to break the silence.

It's a lot easier to blame someone else when things go wrong than it is when your decisions have terrible consequences.

We have a bad habit of locking up people who scare us, and the thing that scares men with power most is a woman with more of it.

When the game is over, the king and the pawn go in the same box.

When the game is over, the kind and the pawn go in the same box.

A través de la ventana divina, la luz reduce a los demonios a cenizas.

Smells like a damned orchard in here.” “What do you have against lemons?” Alessa retorted. His only response was to radiate curmudgeonly gloom through the wall.