“There's the road to heaven, and there's the road to hell, and there? That's the road to Faerie.”
“It was strange to see that no matter what color the clothing first appeared—and they were all hues, from earthy copper and garnet to the blue of sky and shadow—in different light all turned to some shade of green, as if there were a third plane to the cloth’s weaving beyond the warp and weft.”
“She is all that is gracious, Her spirit is comely, The work of her hands is fair.”
“Totta puhuakseni en piittaa paljonkaan: hyvä tarina on hyvä tarina, tuli se mistä tahansa.”
“All the while he's been moving towards her, both stoat to rabbit and moth to flame. And she's staring at him, flame-bright and rabbit-scared, too brave to look away.”
“In the sleepless dark, all things are possible, the worst most likely, all darkness visible. There he lay, as near as comfort, as far as the other side of death, silent and far away in sleep.”
“Blood—” I rasped. “The earth cannot hold all the blood that’s shed on it. And so the stream flows below. We have passed through it now; soon it will be gone from you.”
“the tougher you are on yourself, the easier life will be on you.”
“Love may be a battlefield, but we’re not doing any wrong. We’re kids in a crowd on the top of the world: high, wild, and innocent.”
“What is it about that one motion, that one tiny thing, that always sticks in my head? It’s so stupid. Such a silly thing to focus on.”
“What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is lead in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, (which are but the mute articulation of his feelings,) not those other things are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water-and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! a mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden-it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written.”
“--Let us make a pact, she said. To madness at every juncture!”
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