Quotes from Robin Maxwell

Am I worthy of Juliet, I wondered, worthy as my father was of my mother?

Grace rose from her chair and Elizabeth too came to her feet. "I thought your arse would be sore by now," said Grace. "It is a bit." "You have to be careful when you ask the Irish to tell you a story.

Era riuscita a tenere con se un pezzo dell'anima di sua madre, che avrebbe per sempre fatto parte di lei, una spina dorsale per mantenerla forte negli anni a venire, un secondo cuore che avrebbe battuto nel suo petto.

Posso não ter suficientes qualidades para ser vossa rainha, senhor, mas tenho demasiadas para ser apenas vossa amante.

I'd endured his nonsense as long as I was able before telling him that Mrs. Fournier's life was her own business and that if he wished to make himself useful to me he would point out the sights and explain the things I was seeing.

For men love what they cannot have, and hate what they cannot control.

Am I pretty? I must be, I thought, for all girls in love are pretty.

Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.

For a moment in time, a man knew me for who I was and, without reservation, loved me for who I was. How can I now live knowing no one will ever see me again in such a perfect light? Hear me as I wish to be heard? Love me as [he] loved me?

If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch's works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.

Danger sweetens the brew. Makes it more delicious.

Oh love how can we not be together?' Romeo cried. "Without the sight of you every day, the smell, the taste of you, I would wither away. My blood would turn to powder in my veins. And you? Have you not found in me a mirror for your soul? When you look at me, when we speak, touch, do you not see who you really are? I dare you to deny that in my presence you love yourself better. I know this is true, for I love myself better in yours.

Time would be my friend, I told myself. Yet time, I knew even then, was my enemy.

You cannot know" he said simply. "Very little is certain in this life, my lady.

She shocked me. Truly rocked the ground beneath my feet. Made the air shimmer with her power and grace. The woman had slipped free the prison of rules that governed us all and met me halfway to paradise.

Now the harpist and bard had taken their places under the roof of the three-sided booley house, and guests were wandering from the table to hear them play and sing.

Is there no such thing as a loyal courtier? I think not.

How can this be so? How has it come to this, that all the Lords of England have embraced evil so fervently that they would execute one Lady so that her husband might marry another? It might be said that Henry is no ordinary husband. He is the King. The Sun. A God on earth. But I have known him, and the truth of it is Henry is a man, no more no less, placed upon the throne by other men, thro war and bloodshed and the love of power.

Why did Cromwell do it? Did he not twist and overwork the law and man's reasoning beyond imagining to make my marriage to Henry possible?" "You forget he is a butterfly taken up by which ever wind is the strongest." "Yes, and there is only one wind in England," said I bitterly. "Its name is Henry.

We Irish were alone, of all countries, in this way of choosing our leaders. Everywhere else in the world 'tis a firstborn son who's heir to the title—in England, your primogeniture—and no questions asked. But tanaistry was how the Irish chiefs were made, and it had always served us well. Aside

Everyone knows that for a woman to conceive in the act of coition she, as well as the man. must be satisfied. Is that not true? Of corse it is true.

Most congenial, the booleying life, though never as exciting as the sea. Sure

Tyrone, after wandering with his family through France, the Netherlands, and Germany, finally took up residence in Italy, subsidized by the Pope. Every night, deep in his cups, he would brag that come Hell or high water he would die in Ireland. In 1616 the great rebel O'Neill passed away, a frustrated exile, in Venice.   T

If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch's works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.