Fire wants to burn Water wants to flow Air wants to rise Earth wants to bind Chaos wants to devour Cal wants to live
To the woman in the restaurant today, the doll in her arms was the real child who still lived in her memories.
He was dazed, the soft thoughts sinking slowly in. A son. Even a daughter. His child. Immortality. A chance to make good. Pass on the hard lessons learned.
Once outside the magic circle the writers became their lonely selves, pondering on poems, observing their fellow men ruthlessly, putting people they knew into novels; no wonder they were without friends.
Drinking is such a necessity to human life that people cannot fathom an individual who, like a child confined to a church pew, gets little enjoyment out of it and would rather do other things.
It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.
It was a bit warm. Still. If one could look this fabulous, one had an obligation to. One should wear everything, or one should wear nothing at all.
When one steals a flying balloon and animates it to fly over Paris, one should, ideally, have some idea how said balloon normally works.
Vampires, fey folk, werewolves, Shadowhunters, and demons - these things made sense to Magnus. But the mundane world - it seemed to have no pattern, no form. Their quicksilver politics. Their short lives...
You want a child because it is a link in the bridge that you are building between the past and the future, a cantilever that holds you, so that you are not alone.
The greatest create of power you have on earth, whether you are an angel, a spirit, a man or woman or child is to help others.
He stood there a moment, listened to the creek, and let the mountain air blow against his face. Even with all this heartache, it was beautiful here.
It was beautiful, Mabel knew, but it was a beauty that ripped you open and scoured you clean so that you were left helpless and exposed, if you lived at all.
We are biology. We are reminded of this at the beginning and the end, at birth and at death. In between we do what we can to forget.
she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face.
Here we attempt to answer those questions that arise most frequently. YES, THAT IS WHAT 'FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS' MEANS, THANK YOU.
It is difficult to put words to the smell of decomposing human. It is dense and cloying, sweet but not flower-sweet. Halfway between rotting fruit and rotting meat.
Many people will find this book disrespectful. There is nothing amusing about being dead, they will say. Ah, but there is.
It was as if she had reached into her own pocket and discovered a small pebble, as hard as a diamond, that she had forgotten belonged to her.
Then he returned to Mabel and put his mouth to her ear. I'd never let anything happen to you. You know that, don't you?
There was the noise itself, which he thought of vaguely as the noise of classical music, sameish and rhetorical, full of feelings people surely never had
