The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that is cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.
The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.
Never be afraid of a cliché, if it expresses what you wish to say.
Ecstasy and vulnerability belonged in the same dish. The fear the cup would be snatched away was what gave the wine its savor.
I just love writing. It's magical, it's somewhere else to go, it's somewhere much more dreadful, somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere I feel I belong, possibly more than in the so-called real world.
I hardly ever work from a synopsis -- I find they act like chains.
We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.
I love writers all across the board, but one who influenced me very directly at the beginning was Mary Renault.
We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests.
When I am fascinated by something, I like to play with it.
I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.
I haven't changed. Something's happened to me, that's all.
Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and nonfiction. And even there, who can be sure?
I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.
I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.
She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.
It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.
Go nowhere on a horse that fades, for your dreams will betray you.
Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.
I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.
A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.
How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.
Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.
What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.
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