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Quote by Elizabeth Hoyt

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Dearest Rogue

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Elizabeth Hoyt
Elizabeth Hoyt

Elizabeth Hoyt, born in 1970, is a renowned American romance novel author. Her works are known for their delicate emotional descriptions and captivating storylines, which have won her a large following among readers. more

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“A família talvez seja nossa primeira prisão. Muito do que somos hoje tem a ver com criações desestruturadas, inconsequentes ou castradoras. Ela é muitas vezes responsável pelas nossas inseguranças, nosso vazio, nossa falta de amor. E você sabia que até as famílias foram criadas para servir ao capital? Antigamente vivíamos em comunidades, em tribos. Casais se uniam por amor. As crianças eram criadas pela comunidade. Não havia casamento ou família. A família surgiu para dar conta da propriedade particular de pessoas poderosas que conseguiam acumular posses, riqueza, e queriam que ela ficasse somente com seus descendentes. O casamento surgiu, as famílias se institucionalizaram e os homens passaram a ser os donos de tudo - inclusive de suas mulheres.”

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“He looked right into her eyes; didn’t she know the way she was? She had always treated him like that, his eyes argued. She did not agree—she had never treated him like this, he had spent his lifetime criticizing her. That was only true because she had spent her lifetime criticizing him—and that was how they always came back here, sometimes a wordless moment, their eyes glancing at each other like in a fencing match, each of them accusing the other of playing the role of the victim, portraying each other as the enemy to justify their self-inflicted wounds. She had turned into an uneducated woman (he would argue). He was evil (she would say), he was unable to recognize and acknowledge the good things people tried to do for him.”

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“Pariva was a small village, unimportant enough that it rarely appeared on any maps of Esperia. Bordered by mountains and sea, it seemed untouched by time. The school looked the same as she remembered; so did the market and Mangia Road---a block of eating establishments that included the locally famous Belmagio bakery---and cypress and laurel and pine trees still surrounded the local square, where the villagers came out to gossip or play chess or even sing together. Had it really been forty years since she had returned? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd strolled down Pariva's narrow streets, carrying a sack of pine nuts to her parents' bakery or stopping by the docks to watch the fishing boats sail across the glittering sea. Back then, she'd been a daughter, a sister, a friend. A mere slip of a young woman. Home had been a humble two-storied house on Constanza Street, with a door as yellow as daffodils and cobblestoned stairs that led into a small courtyard in the back. Her father had kept a garden of herbs; he was always frustrated by how the mint grew wild when what he truly wanted to grow was basil. The herbs went into the bread that her parents sold at their bakery. Papa crafted the savory loaves and Mamma the sweet ones, along with almond cakes drizzled with lemon glaze, chocolate biscuits with hazelnut pralines, and her famous cinnamon cookies. The magic the Blue Fairy had grown up with was sugar shimmering on her fingertips and flour dusting her hair like snow. It was her older brother, Niccolo, coaxing their finicky oven into working again, and Mamma listening for the crackle of a golden-brown crust just before her bread sang. It was her little sister Ilaria's tongue turning green after she ate too many pistachio cakes. Most of all, magic was the smile on Mamma's, Papa's, Niccolo's, and Ilaria's faces when they brought home the bakery's leftover chocolate cake and sank their forks into a sumptuous, moist slice. After dinner, the Blue Fairy and her siblings made music together in the Blue Room. Its walls were bluer than the midsummer sky, and the windows arched like rainbows. It'd been her favorite room in the house.”

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“The Carrion. There it was again: that strange word he had heard so often growing up. But just then he asked: “What is the Carrion?” His father seemed pleased that his son had finally wondered aloud. “A place that teaches you the meaning of survival.” In the quiet comfort of the family dining room, rich with the heady odors of exotic spices and long-simmered meats, the statement had no meaning. “Will I be afraid?” he said, again because he sensed he was meant to ask. “If you know what’s good for you.” “Could I die there?” he said, almost in self-amusement. “In ways too numerous to count.” “Would you miss me if I did die?” he asked them both. His mother was the first to say, “Of course we would.” “Then why do I have to go there? Have I done something wrong?” His father placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “We need to know if you are simply ordinary or larger than life.” To the best of his ability, he mulled over the notion of being larger than life. “Did you have to go there when you were young?” His father nodded. “Were you afraid?” His father sat back into his tall, brocaded armchair, as if in recall. “In the beginning I was. Until I learned to overcome fear.”

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“You have cancer." Three words. The heaviest, darkest words I'd ever heard in my life. "What are my options?" I asked. Numb. That's what I felt. Cold. Numb. Empty. All adjectives to describe this feeling racing through me after hearing those three words. "We could begin chemo followed by radiation. It would prolong life by at least a year." A year. One year filled with hospital visits, pain, and frequent visits to the porcelain throne. Do I want that? "A year with treatment? How long if I choose nothing?" A cold stare was my response before she replied. "Honestly?" I nodded. "Shoot it to me straight." "With no treatment, you'd be lucky to see another year." It was early spring in the United States. So, nine months? I'd have just under a year to prepare my husband and children, family and friends, to live without me. Could I? Should I? With treatment I'd gain maybe one more year. But, what would be the quality? "So with or without treatment, the best I'm looking at is a year and a half?" She learned forward before replying, "Yes. Best case scenario, with aggressive treatment, a year and a half." I nodded. How am I supposed to act when given a death sentence? (Will They Remember Me - by Ashlee Shades, coming soon)”

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