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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“But I love you, and before you say it words do matter. They're not pointless. If they were pointless then they couldn't start revolutions and they wouldn't change history and they wouldn't be the things that you think about every night before you go to sleep. If they were just words we wouldn't listen to songs, we wouldn't beg to be read to when we're kids. If they were just words, then they'd have no meaning and stories wouldn't have been around since before humans could write. We wouldn't have learned to write. If they were just words then people wouldn't fall in love because of them, feel bad because of them, ache because of them, stop aching because of them, have sex, quite a lot of the time, because of them.”

“But I love you and I want you and I need you. Can’t you see that? This world has nothing to offer me if it doesn’t include you.”

“But I love YOU, Edweird. Sure, I'll probably hook up with Yakob in Eclipse. After all, you're going to leave me for roughly three hundred pages. But that's neither here nor there. You and I were meant to be together. I mean you, me and sometimes Yakob...and sometimes just Yakob and me, but mostly you and me. That's just the way I always dreamed it should be, you want to marry me. We'll marry." "Hmmm," said Edweird thoughtfully after a long pause. "You know, I'm actually getting kind of tired of Yakob, if you want to know the truth. I mean, seriously, going steady with the same guy for half a century can make a stale relationship. Maybe it's time we see other people. You really set me straight on this, Stella. I want to thank you for makin me see this whole vampire-werewolf relationship thing more clearly." Edweird then turned to Yakob, who had remained silent throughout. "It's over between us, toots.”

“But I loved Joe, perhaps for no better reason in those early days than be- cause the dear fellow let me love him, and, as to him, my inner self was not so easily composed. It was much upon my mind (particularly when I first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe the whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted that if I did, he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing Joe's confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney corner at night staring drearily at my forever lost companion and friend, tied up my tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it, I never afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair whisker, without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe knew it, I never af- terwards could see him glance, however casually, at yesterday's meat or pudding when it came on to-day's table, without thinking that he was debating whether I had been in the pantry. That, if Joe knew it, and at any subsequent period of our joint domestic life remarked that his beer was flat or thick, the conviction that he suspected tar in it, would bring a rush of blood to my face. In a word, I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.”

“But I’m allowed to flirt if I want to. You don’t own me, Taushen. You’re not my father, either.” “I do not want to be your father,” I snarl, beyond frustration. I am so full of need for her that I ache, and she speaks of her father? “I want to be your mate. The one who gets all your touches, all your caresses. The only one.”

“But I'm learning it's human nature to want the things you can't have. What changes is how you go about pursuing the things you want. When you're a little kid and you're told no, you scream and throw a temper tantrum. When you're a teenager and your parents tell you no, you're old enough to internalize your temper tantrum. But you're smarter and you're sneakier this time around. So you nod and act like you care when they say no, when they tell you who you can be friends with, when they say the know what's best. But then you go behind their backs to do it anyway. Because at some point, you need to start calling the shots. At some point, you need to start believing you know whats best. Or, I thought with a smile, you just stop asking for their permission in the first place.”

“But I'm not a writer..." How many times have you thought that? How many times have you said it out loud? How many times have you read a beautifully worded book or a poem or an essay or a social media post and felt it take your breath away? Felt that yearning inside of you, that longing to do that or learn that or become that thing...the one that would let you find the words to share your story like that. If only you were brave enough. If only you were wise enough. If only you had all the right words. If only you were talented. If only you could speak the truth without being judged. If only you could write like her or him or them. If only you were a writer... Guess what. You are. You are a writer - and I promise you this. If you were not a writer you wouldn't be here. You are a writer because words dance in your brain and itch the tips of your fingers - begging you to pick up the pen or click the keyboard. Because a phrase on a page or the lyric of a song can steal your breath and remind you of all lines that live in your soul that long for release. Because you are pulled, again and again, and again to story. To the real and raw and the fantastically make-believe. You are a writer because of your willingness to stare into the void and face the demons and weave the beauty of the world around you into words. And even if those words don't ever make it to a page, they live inside of you. Because you couldn't stop, even if you wanted to. And you don't want to. Because the words are like your breath and the story - your story - that is the air. And the magic that happens when we come together to make stories - well, that's the universe. So the next time you're tempted to let that phrase or any other like it - slip into your brain or from your lips - shut that shit down. Immediately. You are a writer. Do you hear me? You said yes. You are here. You are showing up at the page and sitting in front of the screen. You are welcoming the muse. You are facing the fear. And you are writing. You are a writer. And that's the beginning and end of everything. Now, stop arguing with me, and go write already.”

“But I’m not ok. For days afterward, I walk around dazed, unable to shake the feeling of having been violated. During a meeting with my advisor, she asks how I’m doing, expecting my usual aloof response. Instead, I launch into a version of what happened. I try to be vague because I don’t want to implicate Strane, so the story comes out patchy and incoherent, makes me sound crazy. “This is Henry we’re talking about?” my advisor asks, her voice barely above a whisper; the office walls are thin. “Henry Plough?” He hasn’t even been there a year and already he has a reputation for being a man of integrity. Clasping her hands, my advisor labors over her words as she says, “Vanessa, over the years I’ve gathered from your writing that something happened to you in high school. Do you think that might be what you’re really upset about here?” She waits, her eyebrows jumping as though prompting me to agree. This, I think, is the cost of telling, even in the guise of fiction—once you do, it’s the only thing about you anyone will ever care about. It defines you whether you want it to or not. My advisor smiles, reaches forward and pats my knee. “Hang in there.”