The devil is a very big angel, but a very little man.
When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis, those who are the most themselves are the victims.
Such silly things, children -- and so embarrassing -- because they keep changing themselves out of shame, out of a need to be loved or something. While animals are born who they are, accept it, and that is that. They live with greater peace than people do.
The truth isn't a thing of fact or reason. It is simply what everyone agrees on.
It's unbecoming," she agreed. "A perfect word for my new life. Unbecoming. I who have always been unbecoming am becoming un.
I may not know how to fly but I know how to read, and that's almost the same thing.
What had survived - maybe all that had survived of Trism - was Liir's sense of him. A catalog of impressions that arose from time to time, unbidden and often upsetting. From the sandy smell of his sandy hair to the locked grip of his muscles as they had wrestled in sensuous aggression - unwelcome nostalgia. Trism lived in Liir's heart like a full suit of clothes in a wardrobe, dress habillards maybe, hollow and real at once. The involuntary memory of the best of Trism's glinting virtues sometimes kicked up unquietable spasms of longing.
Don't wish,"said Rain, "don't start. Wishing only...
There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.
To read, even in the half-dark, is also to call the lost forward.
Light will blind us in time, but what we learn in the dark can see us through.
We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out.
But his face had that hollow look, as if there was something gone... you know that look. The inward focus. Distantly attentive to the home you're missing, or the someone you're missing. That look that a bird has when it turns it dry reptilian eye on you. That look that doesn't see you because the mind is filled up with someone it would rather see.
We live in our tales of ourselves, she thought, and ignore as best we can the contradictions, and the lapses, and the abrasions of plot against our mortal souls.
It's been a long rocky life, with plenty of possibility but too much human ugliness.
When I write a book, I write very cleanly from page one to the last page. I hardly ever write out of sequence.
In the end, all disguises must drop.
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