LOOK AT MY BLOOD FLOWERS, BECAUSE I WRITE WITH A SERENE SHARP BLADE THAT SOOTHES. AS MUCH AS CUTS INTO THE DEEPEST PARTS OF MY SOUL.
There may be no English word as bent and broken by casual misuse, or drained of blood by idealizing admirers and apologists, or grossly caricatured by huckstering detractors, as church.
This is one of my favorite things about the Underground: the crashing of the cymbals, the screeching guitar riffs, music that moves into the blood and makes you feel hot and wild and alive.
Dumbledore raised his finger for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.
Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty.
It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them with a loving caress in his voice?
It was important, Dumbledore said, to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated. . . .
I am not worried, Harry," said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. "I am with you.
Nobody's ever asked me to a party before, as a friend. Is that why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I do mine too?
I was supposed to be waiting up here when you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way...” “Yes, they do that,” said Dumbledore.
Why are you worrying about YOU-KNOW-WHO, when you should be worrying about YOU-NO-POO? The constipation sensation that's gripping the nation!
Why are you worrying about you-know-who? You should be worrying about u-no-poo! The constipation sensation that's gripping the nation!
And without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry kissed her.
Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you Potter?" "Yeah I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out.
I just wish I’d asked you sooner. We could’ve had ages . . . months . . . years maybe. . . .
Wars are all fought by men who either believe they are right or who have no other choice. How they fight defines who they are when the blood stops flowing.
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
The talks were like blood transfusions, moments of realness and hope that were pinpricks of light in the dark fabric of small-town life.
All civilizations at some time have fallen into this total terror, when the mystery of life was a kind of panic only to be assuaged by the spilling of blood.
INDECISION NOW!' isn’t a battle cry that’s going to rouse anybody’s blood. But I sometimes wonder if it isn’t the sanest one.
You can’t fight like this. You’re not prepared and you are in no means in control of your emotions.” Blood rushed to her head. “Fuck you!” “My point exactly.
