Everyone is a criminal! We are beset on all sides by antirevolutionary forces. Naturally, then, humans fall into three categories: the criminal, the not-yet-criminal, and the not-yet-caught.
We all have someone we think shines so much more than we do that we are not even a moon to their sun, but a dead little rock floating in space next to their gold and their blaze.
However wretched her origins, she chose freely to continue her crimes against us from the moment she woke to this life. It is easy to forgive beautiful women, especially when they lay a sorrowful tale before you like a sugar-dusted meal. It does not mean they deserve forgiveness.
I have all the books I could need, and what more could I need than books?
I wish you the best that can be hoped for, and no worse than can be expected.
Marya pinned out her childhood like a butterfly. She considered it the way a mathematician considers an equation.
It was at thirteen years old that Marya Morevna learned how to keep a secret, and that secrets are jealous things, permitting no fraternization.
You humans, you know, whoever built you sewed irony into your sinews.
Close up your head; your brain is getting loose.
I’ve a devil of a habit for being right.
We all live inside the terrible engine of authority, and it grinds and shrieks and burns so that no one will say: lines on maps are silly.
But if you must be clever, then be clever. Be brave. Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight.
A girl in want of a Leopard still has feet.
The great blessing and great cruelty of youth is that there seems to be time enough.
Temperament, you’ll find, is highly dependent on time of day, weather, frequency of naps, and whether one has had enough to eat.
This is what comes of having a heart, even a very small and young one. It causes no end of trouble, and that’s the truth.
Do you know, Masha, how revelation comes? Like death. So sudden, though you knew all along it must occur. A revelation is always the end of something. It might even be cause for grief.
There’s more than one way between your world and ours. There’s the changeling road, and there’s the Ravishing, and there’s those that Stumble through a gap in the hedgerows or a mushroom ring or a tornado or a wardrobe full of winter coats.
In his own country, Death can be kind.
You and I, being grown-up and having lost our hearts at least twice or thrice along the way, might shut our eyes and cry out: Not that way, child! But as we have said, September was Somewhat Heartless, and felt herself reasonably safe on that road. Children always do.
Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.