I’d wish you good luck, but you won’t need it. You get to write your own story now. Nothing’s luckier than that.
Love isn’t idiotic. It’s hard and messy, confusing and wonderful. But to love and be loved... that’s all that matters.
My choice”, he’d whispered, taking her hand. “Mine. Not theirs.
I’M SO GLAD you’re not dumb, Yaz,” Neela said. Yazeed shot her a sidelong glace. “I thought you were going to say dead.” “That, too.
Mortals aren’t born strong, they become strong.
Can’t you see that the courage to risk, to dare, to toss that gold coin up in the air over and over again, win or lose, is what makes humans human? They are fragile, doomed creatures, blinder than worms yet braver than the gods.
Love – real love – sees with the heart, master. Not with the eyes.
The truth is usually inappropriate.
If you wait for someone else to make things better, you’ll be waiting a very long time.
I’m not crazy; I’m curious.
The thing is, you can’t ever really know how rotten someone will turn out to be.
Fac quod faciendum est,′ ” Jo read aloud. “Do what must be done.
The worst day above ground is better than any day under it.
Elizabeth walked through the path they’d cleared and up to the towering book. She kicked the cover with a well-shod foot. It slammed shut. Then she dipped her brush into the bucket, crossed out the word history, dipped the brush again, and wrote HER STORY in its place.
You fear you will fail at the very thing you were born for. And your fear torments you... instead of shunning your fear, you must let it speak and listen carefully to what it’s trying to tell you. It will give you good counsel.
You terrify me, Isabelle. I’ve never met a girl like you. You’re a fighter, fierce as hell. You never quit. You don’t know how. You don’t need anyone. You certainly don’t need me.
Thousands of musical voices, like rain on water, beckoned.
I need a name for this ink... A name for the feeling you get when you see someone again. After many years. Someone lost to you. Or so you thought. And you remember them a certain way. In your mind, they never age. But then suddenly, there they are. Older. Changed by time. Different, but exactly the same.
It was a trick. It was this place, all the memories. His longing heart and the darkness conspiring. But his eyes told him it was no trick. He jumped down off the steps and walked toward her. Hoping. Fearing. He’d done this before. So many times. Caught sight of a slender black-haired woman and impulsively called to her, only to have her turn and gaze at him with eyes that were questioning, coldly polite, and never, ever hers.
Mirrors only show us what we are. Books show us what we can be.