Goodbye,” I whisper at last, when it no longer matters and there is no one to hear it but the window.
It’s as if I’ve inherited a skin I cannot quite fit, and so I walk about constantly pulling and and tugging, pinning and pruning, trying desperately to fill it out, hoping that no one will look at me struggling and say, ‘That one there- she’s a fraud, Look how she doesn’t fit at all.
I’m floating inside my skin. I could go on floating like this for days. Right now, the real world with its heartbreak and disappointments is just a pulse against the protective membrane we’ve drunk ourselves into. It’s somewhere outside us, waiting.” A Great and Terrible Beauty, Page 141, by.
Come on, Father. Stop me. Tell me to behave, to go to hell, something, anything.
I must remember to forgive myself. Because there’s an awful lot of gray to work with. No one can live in the light all the time.“-A Great and Terrible Beauty.
Because there’s nothing wrong with you... that can’t be fixed.
In truth, it is the simplest act in the world. The trick works because you wish it to. You must remember the most important rule of and successful illusion; First the people must want to believe it.
I should like to make my mark. To venture opinions that may not be polite or even correct but are mine nonetheless. If I am to be hanged for anything, I should like to feel that I go to the gallows on my own strength.
Oh, I didn’t think it wise to hide it. Might not be able to find it again,” I say, cheerily. “It’s sitting in plain view on your chair in the great hall. I do hope that was the best place for it.
Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala,” I say with an affected bow.
Oh, honey, of course it hurts! Beauty is pain. But you don’t want to look like a troll, do you?
Writers are also sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.
Perhaps it is only the light. Perhaps it is the power of the realms at work through me. Or perhaps it is some combination of spirit and desire, love and hope, some alchemy that we each possess and can put to use, if first we know were to look without flinching.
Felicity laughs and takes on the tone of a fashionable lady. “Darling, the Bryn-Joneses have just done the most marvelous thing in their parlor with human blood. We simply must have ours done straightaway!
I don’t trust her father than I can run full-steam in a corset.
Can we talk about the miracle that is the Small World ride? It’s like an acid trip drag show.
I have met the devil, and her name is Cecily Temple.
Why had this power come to me? I can scarcely govern myself. At times, I feel as if I could dance through the halls with happiness, and then, just as suddenly, my thoughts are dark and lost and frightening.
Only ninnies go to Penny’s.
When it is time for me to visit Brigid, I find her awake in her little room. “That’s awl righ’, luv. I don’ care to forget, if it’s all the same,” she says, and there are no rowan leaves at her window anymore.