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Quote by G. Clotaire Rapaille

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G. Clotaire Rapaille

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“I soon graduated to Comté, a hard, fruity cheese that when aged has the sweetness and flake of Parmesan, and tête de moines (literally, "a monk's head"), made from sheep's milk. Bleu d' Auvergne, my favorite blue cheese, had nothing much in common with the crumbs I'd seen at home on a California Cobb salad. It was so dense it resembled a hunk of butter, coursing with violet veins. For the wedding, Gwendal also wanted Salers, a cheese from Cantal with an almost peppery after-bite. It is made in huge tomes that, when you cut a slice, leave crags as in the side of a cliff. Monsieur Gilot kindly suggested a milder entre-deux (literally, "in between"), but Gwendal held his ground. As a last choice, we took a tomme de chèvre frais, a round of fresh mild goat cheese the color of newly fallen snow.”

FrenchCheesesComteFromage
Book:Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes
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“The troutberry trees had already bloomed and gone; on the forest floor, delicate white petals of starflowers and goldthread and Carolina springbeauty sparkled when a stray beam of sunshine caught them. Wild onions were the only plant that had fully leafed out, brilliant bright green under maple and elm and birch and oak whose own leaves were still pregnant thoughts. All of nature was just waking up, fulling, becoming large and new.”

FlowersTreesSpringtimeLiz BraswellNatures Process
Book:A Twisted Tale Anthology
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“Sick of body, unable to rise up, vehemently intoxicated without wine . . . And it is as though she who visits me were filled with modesty, For she does not pay her visits save under cover of darkness, I freely offered her my linen and my pillows, But she refused them, and spent the night in my bones. My skin is too contracted to contain both my breath and her, So she relaxes it with all sorts of sickness. When she leaves me, she washes me As though we had retired apart for some forbidden action. It is as though the morning drives her away, And her lachrymal ducts are flooded in their four channels. I watch for her time without desire, Yet with the watchfulness of the eager lover. And she is ever faithful to her appointed time, but faithfulness is an evil When it casts thee into grievous sufferings.”

PoemEgyptFeverDeliriousAl Mutanabbī
Author:Al-Mutanabbī
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“All at once it seemed like too much of a betrayal to continue to pretend that his brother was delirious, hallucinating, not in his right mind. Lying when he was telling the truth. Maybe Kenzie was right-maybe secrets were more the problem than the solution. Maybe Kenzie was the only clearheaded person in that room. And yet-he couldn't supress a twinge of fear that if he told the truth, he'd never see Emma again. Never hear her music again. Their musical connection was the closest he'd ever come to slacking his thirst for a human touch.”

TruthFearLieDeliriousHuman Touch
Book:The Sorcerer Heir
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