He’s so happy,” Eliot said dryly. “It’s like he cooked something and it came out looking like the picture in the cookbook.
He felt like he was coming back to life too. Not that he’d been dead, just... not quite alive. Something else.
There were things he’d been scared to face his whole life, and now that he was looking them in the eye they weren’t quite as scary as he first thought.
It was a worrying trend. Everybody else was deep into their own stories, and all the stories were woven together just beneath the surface into a web that included Plum. But what was Plum’s story?
I’ve got no other home to go to, not anymore. When I look at England now I see a dead place, Rupert. A wasteland. I won’t live in a wasteland. I’d rather die in paradise.
Whether or not he was in it, whether or not he could see or touch it, he’d thought there would always be a FIllory out there somewhere. He loved knowing it was there. It anchored his sense of happiness, the way a distant stockpile of gold might underwrite the value of a paper bill.
Sometimes I think I am fate’s sword. She wields me cruelly.” Quentin wondered what it was like to be so unselfconsciously melodramatic. Nice, probably. “Right.
He’d thought he’d known what his future looked like, but he’d been mistaken. His life would be something else now. He was starting over, only he didn’t think he had the strength to start over. He didn’t know if he could stand up.
If being a hero is a matter of knowing your cues, like the fairy tale said, he’d missed his.
He was asked to draw a rabbit that wouldn’t keep still as he drew it – as soon as it had paws it scratched itself luxuriously and then went hopping off around the page, nibbling at the other questions, so that he had to chase it with the pencil to finish filling in the fur. He wound up pacifying it with some hastily sketched radishes and then drawing a fence around it to keep it in line.
If this was madness it was an entirely new kind of madness, as yet undocumented in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. She had nerdophrenia. She was dorkotic.
She just assumed that everybody shared her desire for everybody to be clear on everything, and she’d expect you to do the same for her.
His first two months at Brakebills spun by, and soon red and gold leaves were scattering across the Sea, as if they were being pushed by invisible brooms – which possibly they were? – and the flanks of the slow-moving topiary beasts in the Maze showed streaks of color. Quentin.
Nothing happened, then broke Poppys hand the smoth surface like the Lady in the lake, except thst the hand, instead of holding a magical sword, in this case only did a big, entusiastic thumb up-sign.
Living in a castle is objectively romantic.
Historical seen, said Alice, people have almost always have whrong when they have said that.
Its composure thoroughly disrupted, the little treelet, the picture of arboreal distress, let its branches droop a little, and its green birch leaves fluttered anxiously.
It was too easy, and he’d had enough of doing things the easy way.
Julia picked at her food, managing a bite every few minutes, like her body was an unloved pet that she was being forced to babysit.
Lots of people say they’ve talked to dragons, but it’s very hard to verify. Supposedly the Thames dragon wrote most of Pink Floyd’s stuff. At least after.