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Quote by Marjike de Jong

“We will never have to tell our horse that we are sad, happy, confident, angry, or relaxed. He already knows – long before we do.”

Quote by Marjike de Jong

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Marjike de Jong

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“C'era sempre più vento, ora il vento ululava angosciosamente, così ululano i branchi di lupi famelici nelle steppe. I marinai uscivano all'improvviso dalla tenebra, si dilatavano, smisuratamente crescevano, un attimo esitavano altissimi sulla murata, càsco non càsco, come un macigno pencolante sull'orlo d'un precipizio, poi cozzavano, e con fragore e schianto di macigno crollavano a bordo. Allora tutto a bordo era onda e frangente.”

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Book:Oceano
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“It was a heavier breed than the ones she had seen so far, handsome white mare with a short, muscular neck, wide shoulders, and a hawklike profile that implied strength and nobility. Her mane and tail were golden brown, and wavy, as if they had been braided and then brushed. Her gait was clean and crisp, and she bore her rider, a tall man with long legs, as if he weighted nothing at all. Suddenly England was interesting. This mare would be perfect to cross with Black Satin, if the obstacle of the Atlantic Ocean could be overcome. She was sturdy. She appeared to have a level disposition, paying no attention to the other mounts who passed her or the rattle and bang of the occasional landau. She carried herself beautifully, with a nice balance between the set of her head and the movement of her hindquarters. She held her silken tail high, a sure sign of joy and pride.”

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Book:The Age of Witches
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“Do you like horses?" "Truth be told, the only thing I love more is dragons." Wren whistles, and a whinny resounds throughout the air. I spin around, marveling as a horse gallops through the field of jasmine. She's like a bolt of obsidian in a blanket of white, her breaths like little gusts of wind. She rears several times once she's next to Wren, stomping her front hooves until he reaches out to pet her. "This is Nerra. She will take us where we must go." Like an acrobat performing a trick for the umpteenth time, Wren hops onto Nerra's back effortlessly. He reaches a hand out to me, and I climb on. He places my hands around his waist, and I swallow hard. "Hold on tight. You're in for a treat," he says. On the count of three, he kicks Nerra into a gallop. The horse is like a dragon bound to the earth. Her gait is smooth, her gallop so strong it practically feels like she's trying to take flight with each stride. I hold on tightly to Wren. We head north. Dressed in bright garments that appear to be dipped in a ray of sunlight, Emerald flitters around as we enter a field of daisies. "Hi," Wren says. "We're on our way to see Omniscius." Emerald gives a graceful nod, following behind Nerra with several other fairies. Much to my delight, as we exit the field of daisies and encroach on a field of red roses, the fairies' beautiful yellow garments turn red. Wren's shirt and my dress do the same.”

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Book:The Princess of Thornwood Drive
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“As long as he fought imaginary giants, Don Quixote was just play-acting. However once he actually kills someone, he will cling to his fantasies for all he is worth, because only they give meaning to his tragic misdeed. Paradoxically, the more sacrifices we make for an imaginary story, the more tenaciously we hold on to it, because we desperately want to give meaning to those sacrifices and to the suffering we have caused.”

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Book:Homo Deus: A History of Tomorrow
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“He was not smiling. But neither was his look menacing. His close-cropped white hair gave him an almost regal appearance as he stared at me with a benign, slightly bemused expression as if he were intrigued by this strange white child who was howling like a banshee. By now I was sitting straight up in bed, the tears streaming copiously down my face, and as I screamed again he began to disappear. Starting with his feet he began to vanish a bit at a time: his lower legs disappeared, and then his thighs, and then his arms and torso until all that was left of him was his handsome face, that face now floating in the air without a body to sustain it, and his face was still wearing that benign, slightly bemused expression until, at last, his face was gone, too.”

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Book:A Knock in the Attic
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