He was brother to a liar and brother to an angel, son of a dream and son of a dreamer.
It was a sort of ferocious, quiet beauty, the sort that wouldn’t let you admire it. The sort of beauty that always hurt.
This time, it was more of a thought than a feeling, a soft heat that began at her mouth and unfurled through the rest of her.
His mother had told him that when you looked into the eyes of God at the pearly gates, all the questions you ever had were answered. Ronan had a lot of questions. Waking Glendower might be like that. Fewer angels attending, and maybe a heavier Welsh accent. Slightly less judgment.
Gansey had no idea how old Blue was. He knew she’d just finished eleventh grade. Maybe she was sixteen. Maybe she was eighteen. Maybe she was twenty-two and just very short and remedial.
He danced on the knife’s edge between awareness and sleep. When he dreamt like this, he was a king. The world was his to bend. His to burn.
Eventually, the Gray Man thought, if he resisted using it for long enough, he himself might forget his own name, and became someone else entirely.
It was nothing, but it was Adam Parrish’s nothing. How he hated and loved it. How proud he was of it, how wretched it was.
If Adam was stupid about his pride, Gansey was stupid about Adam.
His heart hurt with the wanting of it, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.
I just looked at her, feeling utterly empty. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say to her. My life is in that bed. Please let me stay.
I picture my books as movies when I get stuck, and when I’m working on a new idea, the first thing I do is hit theaters to work out pacing and mood.
I really love nature. I grew up in the country. But one of the things about nature is that it is beautiful but it’s also very dangerous.
I think that whenever a book is not a challenge, I’m telling the wrong story.
I’m a dirt road out in the country kind of person, but I remember thinking, I could live in Chicago.
In the end, you have to write like you’re not afraid of the critics.
I don’t cry at books or movies. Ever. So imagine my shock and awe when I read ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’ for the second time, and I knew the ending, and I started to cry.
I love inventing interesting people and then pushing them to their absolute limits – and usually those absolute limits involve homicidal faeries, werewolves, or some other paranormal menace.
I would like to say that I was inspired to write ‘Shiver’ by some overwhelming belief in true love, but here’s my true confession: I wrote ‘Shiver’ because I like to make people cry.
When I was a child, I was one of the kids who wore black all the time, and when the kids asked me why I wore black, I said things like, ‘I’m mourning the death of modern society.’ I mean, I was a riot.