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Quote by Kate DiCamillo

“The world that morning was coated in a layer of hoarfrost, and the brother was late to the task of feeding Answelica because he had stood for too long admiring the light of the rising sun shining on the blades of grass and the branches of the trees. The whole world seemed lit from within.”

Quote by Kate DiCamillo

Work

The Beatryce Prophecy

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Author

Kate DiCamillo
Kate DiCamillo

Kate DiCamillo is an American author renowned for her children's literature. Her works are known for their warmth, humor, and profound emotional depth, making them highly popular with readers. Born on March 25, 1964, DiCamillo's writing career began in the field of children's literature and has since expanded into adult literature. more

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“Above this crystal pool are rows of lighted candles, flames flickering in the wind. Carved orange lanterns line the crags. O, ignisfatuus, foolish fire. O, the lantern in the mire. Spirits quaking with the light, demon darkness, far too bright. Orange whispers, yellow cries; ever-haunting, numb good-byes. Good-bye, O childhood; Farewell, my nickel joys.”

“Daniel seems to rise above the moon with a brilliance in his eyes. He steps toward the sea and screams, more in defiance than rage. “Mortality; O wretched death and mortality! Decay is a demon dream, schemed in symmetry. O, that death crucified might halt its talons, for all will ascend from the grave! Remember the fallen, the slain; their dust is our foundation. Consider their suffering and pain; for there lies a new creation.”

“Daniel? Daniel...of what use are the bones of saints? Of what great interest to me are their dusted stories of day?” I stand at a dreadful distance. He speaks, “Silent stones of granite hue; enveloped now in sacred dew. Speak somber words of restless hope... of resurrection.” I hear the hushings of the wind in a rhythmic silence, and turn to see a friar’s lantern on a distant ridge.”

“Daniel,” I speak through weariness, “God has given me little hope and less strength. I hear only a voice saying ‘no’ from the wings of this circling stage.” “Ah, because we worship the gods of the arts in our wavering world; the mock souls and masked faces with painted-on peace. What do you expect of a forgery?” He pauses as he turns toward me. “Reality is no longer relevant.” Darkness chokes the moon as we rest on stirring sand.”