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Quote by Max Gladstone

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Empress of Forever

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Max Gladstone

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“Self-identity depends upon our manner of apprehending the world. Life for me is primarily about distilling patterns, attempting to sift between the ordinary and extraordinary events of daily of life in order to weave a mosaic that defines and clarifies the reasons behind why and how I live.”

SelfIdentityMemoirSelf RealizationSelf DeterminationWriters On WritingMemoir WritingSelf IdentityWriters On ThinkingWriting Memoir
Book:Dead Toad Scrolls
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“I do not often reveal weakness in my writing. I tell stories in magnificent terms; I am, as a person, the ultimate case study in hyperbole. I tell stories borne from passion or anger or righteous conviction, I want to incite a revolution in your heart; I tell stories that are godly and Grand, I am the Great Gatsby of impressive tropes and fiery forging chaos strummed into smooth endings with an adjective; I am a teller of magnificent fables; I am a glutton of adjectival delicacy, I construct empires in paragraphs where villages are more appropriate; you ask me for an apple, I give you ten, then if you hesitate to speak, I will give you six more.”

WritingSelfNarcissismAuthorshipAuthors On Writing
Author:Alice Minium
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“I slipped in and out of consciousness as time stretched and flowed around me. Dreams and reality blurred, but I liked the dreams better. Noah was in them. I dreamed of us, walking hand in hand down a crowded street in the middle of the day. We were in New York. I was in no rush—I could walk with him forever—but Noah was. He pulled me alongside him, strong and determined and not smiling. Not today. We wove among the people, somehow not touching a single one. The trees were green and blossoming. It was spring, almost summer. A strong wind shook a few steadfast flowers off of the branches and into our path. We ignored them. Noah led me into Central Park. It was teeming with human life. Bright colored picnic blankets burst across the lawn, the pale, outstretched forms of people wriggling over them like worms in fruit. We passed the reservoir, the sun reflecting off its surface, and then the crowd began to thicken. They funneled into a throbbing mass as we strode up a hill, over and through. Until we could see them all below us, angry and electric. Noah reached into his bag. He pulled out the little cloth doll, my grandmother’s. The one we burned.”

RomanceFantasyMysteryYoung Adult Paranormal
Book:The Retribution of Mara Dyer
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