What we have is real love, but real love is messy and complicated. How can it not be, with our history?
Goliath fell to a slingshot and a stone. and the Library is a lumbering giant, dying of its own arrogance; it has to change or fall. We have the tools. The will. The knowledge.
Books represented home to him, and around every wall, the doctor’s shelves were full to bulging, a haphazard organization of varied colors of binding, sizes, shapes. There was a happy disorder about it that made Jess feel something settle inside he hadn’t even known was restless.
But he was starting to realize that maybe he didn’t really have a home, except with the people he loved.
When I’m feeling uncomfortable, I attack. It makes people step off and gives me time to find my way.
Stripping away the humanity because that is the only way I can save myself and still watch this unrelenting horror.
I’m fine,” I automatically tell her, because that’s what I always tell her. And myself. But it doesn’t take a paid psychologist to figure out that I’m not okay. I’m having flashbacks. Cold sweats. Nightmares. And now this.
Rely on the internet for how yo look at the world, though, and you’ll see the worst side of people represented far too much.
Touch my other son and die.
Happiness, however brief, always matters.
We are only the most visible casualties of a silent war, and as they lock collars on our necks and tell us it is for our protection, we know that worse will come.
Nostalgia is for normal people.
Reset the board and keep playing.
You may live in your small, dark corner and light a candle and pretend it is the sun; in time, you might even believe it. I certainly cannot stop you. But I will mourn for those you drag into the darkness along with you.
There was a damp crack as the flesh and bones of the dead finally failed, and the gate slammed shut.
There’s no time in a woman’s life that isn’t dangerous, and that’s just a fact of life.
When a strong gale constantly blows, everything bends,” Murasaki said. “And even the most honest make accommodations, and soon they are not honest at all.
Faith. Faith in what? He’d believed in the Library, the ideal of it, anyway. He believed that it was doing good, and more, that it wanted to do good. But now he’d seen the dirty underside, and he couldn’t hold on to his faith much longer.
Dead doesn’t mean gone.
The weather isn’t what you think it is. Not by a long shot.
Because revolution rarely comes from those in charge.