Disturbed to her very soul, Finley could only shake her head. "You ask too much." A crooked grin curved his mouth. "Too much? You strange and wonderful girl, that is the least I'll ask of you.
There was also something about the smell of bookshops that was strangely comforting to her. She wondered if it was the scent of ink and paper, or the perfume of binding, string, and glue. Maybe it was the scent of knowledge. Information. Thoughts and...
He tried to close a hand around the precious coffee but had to jerk his fingers away, sharply enough that his wrist popped painfully. Tallow wondered if the other end of the coffee machine was slurping water out of a lake in Hell.
Sarah wonders if whatever secrets Grace is protecting feel the same as her own, sometimes just fuzzy and ticklish, like a littler of kittens trying to climb and paw their way out, and sometimes with claws bared, kittens grown to tigers, camouflaged b...
The Princess of Parma was a Courvoisier in that she was incapable of innovation in social matters, but unlike the Courvoisiers in that the surprises the Duchesse de Guermantes perpetually held in store for her engendered in her not, as in them, antip...
It isn't fair how I doubt him, and I wonder if he'll ever gather that my loss of faith extends further than I'd ever known it would, severing lines of trust and leveling my confidence like a city-flattening tornado.
Why, he wondered, was it so hard to see humankind as capable of creating miracles? Miracles were just second chances if you really thought about it-second chances when all hope was lost.
I wondered about the explorers who'd sailed their ships to the end of the world. How terrified they must have been when they risked falling over the edge; how amazed to discover, instead, places they had seen only in their dreams.
I’m wondering how long I have to deal with this bullshit before I can brief my troops. Oh, and I gotta feed my goldfish. Let’s get this straight, Blondie—” “Blondie?” “That’s an insult, not a pet name.
Memory loss is the key to human reproduction. If you remembered what new parenthood was actually like you wouldn’t go around lying to people about how wonderful it is, and you certainly wouldn’t ever do it twice.
You need to decide whether you're willing to risk being hurt, plain and simple. You can go for it and have a wonderful relationship. Or you might go for it and crash and burn brilliantly. It's up to you if you want to take that risk, up to you if it'...
He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way.
America's 1st Arab spring came in the guise of the Civil War...when our nation couldn't stomach the abomination of slavery anymore. One can't help keep wondering...when the next one will come.✌
In an age of guidebooks, websites, and radio waves, discovery has nearly become a lost feeling. If anything, it is now a matter of expectations to surpass—rarely a matter of unexpected wonderment. It is unusual to find a situation that appears with...
If I hurt your feelings we ought to discuss it. I don't like this kiss-and-forget.' 'But I don't want to argue. I think it's wonderful that we can kiss and forget, and when we can't it'll be time to argue.
I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.
So much of history is mystery. We don't know what is lost forever, what will surface again. All objects exist in a moment of time. And that fragment of time is preserved or lost or found in mysterious ways. Mystery is a wonderful part of life.
He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he'd do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her.
How wonderful to find in living creatures the same substance as those which make up minerals. Nevertheless they felt a sort of humiliation at the idea that their persons contained phosphorous like matches, albumen like white of egg, hydrogen gas like...
It was difficult to hold Broca's brain without wondering whether in some sense Broca was still there—his wit, his skeptical mien, his abrupt gesticulations when he talked, his quiet and sentimental moments.
Something in Naja's voice, in the roughness of his hands, made Arjin wonder if there might be some truth to the tales of Ansari devouring soft, young humans. The hunger and need he felt pouring off the other man frightened Arjin even as it excited hi...
