Remember, children, all the stories are true." Simon tried to wrap his head around the idea that there might, somewhere in Germany, be a large bean stalk with an angry giant at the top.
Simon was still hoping that somewhere in the Sadowhunter manual was the secret of the Vulcan death grip. After all, as his instructors kept reminding them: All the stories are true.
Divided we stand,' Simon thought, his stubborn biceps refusing to bulge. 'United we do push-ups.
Stories of her children when they were small, their round little bodies barely containing their personalities, which bloomed and glittered and melted into her.
If I'd learned anything, it was that the gods never had good news - especially when it was delivered by the resurrected corpse of your worst enemy.
How complex, untrustworthy, and important our stories are. We will never tell you the true story of our lives.
You can point to the alleged miracles of the Bible, or any other religious text, but they are nothing but old stories fabricated by man and then exaggerated over time.
The man now retrieved a linen cloth and stuffed it deep into Katherine’s mouth. “Death,” he whispered to her, “should be a quiet thing.
Knowledge grows exponentially. The more we know, the greater our ability to learn, and the faster we expand our knowledge base.
You are too kind, and I am unused to it. For your own sake, do not stroke my misery. It knows not how to respond, but with a vicious bite.
A Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty, once lost, is lost forever.
I have wrought my simple plan If I give one hour of joy To the boy who’s half a man, Or the man who’s half a boy.
I once got lost in a dark woods with no supplies. Struggling to deal with nature, beasts and storms, that was time when I lost my arrogance as human.
Etchings endure, But not in Sand Meanings Collide To Unresolved Fragments Codes fizzle to Static They are not lost But Unheard Never lost Fading slowly to Silence By infinite degrees
In her orchard the trees had been born from deaths; they marked and grew from the remains of the children that had passed through her.
I'm glad she left me the kids. I'd be lost without them. Lost and bitter. With them here, I'm only bitter.
You want to be happy? You want to be well? Then put your boots on.
Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.
Prices of semicolons, plot devices, prologues and inciting incidents continued to fall yesterday, lopping twenty points off the TomJones Index.
A beloved daughter who now spent holidays alone.
I put her burnt bones into my mouth and swallowed them whole.
