The virtue of angels is that they cannot deteriorate; their flaw is that they cannot improve. Man’s flaw is that he can deteriorate; and his virtue is that he can improve. – Hasidic saying.
Let me tell you something, Jesse Blackthorn. Your mother may have reason to be resentful of Shadowhunters, but if her ridiculous demons hurt my brother, I will have no pity. I shall beat her to death with her own stupid hat.
Of the freedom to be wild and untrammeled. Of the ache she felt in her soul sometimes to be connected to nothing, answerable to nothing, bound by nothing.
Sa-ti pierzi un parinte, asta poate fi considerata o nenorocire. Sa-i pierzi pe amandoi, e curata neglijenta.
Not everyone’s cut out to have one,” she said. She wished for a moment that she had the words to explain it properly: how loving someone more than you loved yourself gave you strength and courage; how seeing yourself in your parabatai’s eyes meant seeing the best version of yourself; how, at its best, fighting alongside your parabatai was like playing instruments in harmony with one another, each piece of the music improving the other.
The only alternative seems to be doing nothing, dearest Charlotte,” he said. “And doing nothing, I find, rarely accomplishes anything. Besides, what could go wrong?
People can be awful when they’re in love.
She looked beautiful, fierce, as terrible as a goddess.
There is more than one kind of ghost.
Abyssus abyssum invocat in voce cataractarum tuarum; omnia excelsa tua et fluctus tui super me transierunt.
A trellis crawled up the side of the house; a single last rose hung on it, drooping browning petals. The.
She was a story in herself, sweet and full of hope, just beginning.
Have a little faith.
Aunt Harriet always said that as long as a tall woman carried herself well, she would forever look regal.
Life is a stage, so exit in style.
Also, people who did drugs were boring. Hopelessly, relentlessly boring. Drugs made them either too slow or too fast, and mostly they talked about drugs.
Why does your sword so drip with blood, Edward, Edward? Why does your sword so drip with blood? And why so sad are ye?
Love and hate had their own secret languages.
Unde exista senzatia ca nu exista rasplata, zise Hodge, apare un dezechilibru intre puteri. E un dezechilibru usor de exploatat, dar asta nu e o cale inteleapta. Unde exista dragose, este de asemenea la fel de adesea si ura. Pot exista umar la umar.
There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past – Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by – White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth – and Heaven.