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S Quotes

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All S Quotes

“She didn’t know exactly when she had first felt the sensation of regret. It was a physical sensation, a shudder that began deep in the stomach and traveled up through the throat; it was distinct from remorse, which one felt first in the throat and only later in the gut. Yet it was regret that she couldn’t handle. She did anything she could to avoid it—including the initial bargain, the one that began everything. And now this one.”

“She didn't know much about real princesses except for in fairy tales, and books like #27: Legends from the Time of Knights. Gawain and Roland and his tower and the like. Princesses were often the points on which plots turned, the fulcrum that sped the hero along on his journey of becoming legendary, dead, or both. Sometimes the princesses were good-hearted and the knights fought valiantly for their honor. Sometimes they were evil and used witchy machinations to control the people around them, lacking any real power over their own lives. But honestly Rapunzel didn't remember a whole lot about either kind. They were boring. She loved the swordsmanship of the knights and did her best to reenact it with broom handles and frying pans, dancing back and forth on her feet to evade imaginary blows.”

“She didn’t know that my heart was a sandstorm waiting to open her skin in a desert of cuts. She didn’t know the animal that waited in my stomach, silently shredding the walls. For her, my heart wore small white shoes and carried a purse, went to bed early. I wanted to shoot myself into her arms so she understood the need to crash cars with me, to tear up pavement because we were beautiful.”

“She didn't know that the brioches in her breakfast basket had been formed by my hand. She didn't know the macarons----two each night, sent in a small box----were mine. But I did. In moments of weakness, I'd close my eyes and try to imagine her soft lips parting over jewel-bright confections, pink tongue tasting the flavors of me----achieved by the strange alchemy of whipping egg whites, infusing creams, and straining ripe fruits, all melded together into an intense burst of flavor. Had she preferred the inky-black chicory chocolate, the butter-rich caramel and burnt pear? Or did she moan for the juicy brightness of the grapefruit honey or blood orange and rose? It was enough to make a man hard.”

“She didn't know 'this meadow', exactly. But she was familiar with the concept. The types of plants. The 'raven,' which she knew was too big to be a 'crow'. The trees: the way the trees circled meant there was probably a bog or a stream in the middle, where the land dipped. She 'knew' that. She knew that beyond these leafy trees would be gnarled, thicker trees with dark green leaves. And beyond them, pines. And under their heavy boughs, there lay a friendly darkness so complete it put the vines over the castle bailey to shame.”

“She didn't know where these visions came from or why they would come. Perhaps it was a side effect of whatever process Dr. Finkelstein had used to bring her to life. Or maybe the old brain he'd stuffed in her head had been psychic when it belonged to its person. Or maybe it was just a rag doll thing; she had no other doll friends to compare to, so she couldn't be sure. But while she didn't know why the visions came and she couldn't predict when they would come, she was sure of one thing. They were usually trying to tell her something. Something important. And she needed to pay attention.”

“She didn't look up, her gaze focused entirely on the paper before her as she drew what looked like a wing. He picked up one of the papers from the floor, and on it was a butterfly, the colors a blending of vibrant yellows and oranges. He held out the paper. "What's this one called?" "Golden Shimmer," she said. "She loves the sunlight." He picked up a picture of a light-purple butterfly with a string of pearls around her neck. "And this one?" "Lavender Lace. She has the power to heal all sorts of wounds." He scanned the room, all the pictures on the floor. "Do they each have a name?" Finally she looked at him, her bright-blue eyes meeting his. "Of course." And he realized with a pang of sadness that these were Libby's friends for life. "They are beautiful." A glint of a smile. "Thank you." He picked up another butterfly, this one a dark violet shade, a silver streak bleeding across the edge of its wings. "What is she called?" "Silver Shadow." "Does she have a story?" Libby's smile faded. "She's lost and can't seem to find her way home.”

“She didn't much care if it was or wasn't the musical portrait of the cellist, it's likely that he'd fabricated in his mind any alleged similarities, real or imagined, but what impressed death was that she seemed to hear in those fifty-eight seconds of music a rhythmical and melodic transposition of every and any human life, be it run-of-the-mill or extraordinary, because of its tragic brevity, its desperate intensity, and also because of that final chord, like an ellipsis left hanging in the air, something yet to be said. The cellist had fallen into one of the least forgivable of human sins, that of presumption, when he thought he could see his face, and his alone, in a portrait in which everyone could be found, a presumption which, however, if we think about it, if we choose not to remain on the surface of things, could equally be interpreted as a manifestation of its polar opposite, that is, of humility, since if it is a portrait of everyone, then I must be included in it too.”

“she didn't need anyone. At Wheeler, even when she stood out with her pink hair and quilter army-surplus jacket and combat bots, she did this without apology. It was a great irony that the very fact of a relationship with her would diminish her appeal, that the moment she came to love me back and depend on me as much as I depended on her, she would no longer be a truly independent spirit. No way in hell was I going to be the one to take that quality away from her.”

“She didn’t need the tiny bell to be aware Captain Caulfield had entered. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear it across the room. He stood at the door in his great coat and topper like any other man, but he appeared more striking. He spoke with Mr. Miller. Every so often he glanced in her direction, dipped his head ever so slightly and sent her heart racing. - The Lady and Her Quill”

“She didn’t notice the partially fogged vanity mirror as she walked toward the bathroom, either—two thick fluffy towels in hand. Not until she was inside anyway and a pair of jeans and fringed leather chaps tossed carelessly over the edge of the vanity came into view. She almost dropped the towels as she spun around. “Hey.” The Dixie Chicks crooning, there’s your trouble, straight into her ear was a particularly ironic twist.”