Quotes from Nancy Springer

That was the day I most remember, now that I fly over battlefields and the screams of dying men echo up to me as fate falls like soot from my gray wings.

It started small, as such fates often do.

Pan Mycroft to, pan Mycroft tamto, pan Mycroft mo?e i?? si? wypcha?.

ABCDE FGHIJ KLMNO PQRST UVWXYZ And each part has five letters, except the last; but Z is used so seldom that it can be lumped together with Y. I then wrote my real message to Mum

mostly naked, in a very different area than that whence they came. For this reason, few such children were allowed upon the street without the accompaniment of a guardian-servant. "For her clothing? The Duquessa is not a child!" To the contrary, I thought; she seemed quite childlike in many ways, but Sherlock laughed heartily. "Most far-fetched.

utterly still—except that my fingers tightened around my dagger hilt—and make no sound. Meanwhile, footfalls pounded up a nearby staircase. "The villain!" continued the shrieker. "She broke in 'ere! My 'ot'ouse!" "Flora, calm yourself." Pertelote's weary voice. "She's long gone." Would that it were so.

Face Guy of Gisbourne? Not likely, not anytime soon, thank you very much.

I could not be corseted, either literally or figuratively, into any conventional feminine mould.

Curiosity goes hand in hand with intellect, and intellect runs in the family.

I had learned to trust the peculiar workings of my heart and mind

One cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman's selfhood and her dreams.

Había descubierto que montar en bici me permitía pensar sin preocuparme de que alguien se percatara de mis muecas y expresiones.

for I could no longer think of him as lord, viscount, duke's son; he was my comrade now

however, that most married women disappeared into the house every year

Conform, go crazy, or become an artist.

Confound my genteel upbringing! I could not think of any name foul enough to call him.

I hope that the kind reader recognises this as a despairing attempt at humour.

Yet one could speak truth and still be a villain

All the words I had prepared turned coward and fled my mind like conscripts deserting a battlefield.

To her, everything is beautiful in its own way, and everyone is a friend just waiting for her. And somehow it works for her.

what's life without a spice of stupidity

He would expect me to flee from him. Therefore, I would not. I would flee towards him.

Writing fiction has always, for me, been an alchemy of turning pain into poetry, ugliness into beauty. It has been a kind of redemption.

He was just a sixteen-year old boy who had been killed, a kid whose photo had been in the paper, a kid who would mostly be forgotten by the time the newspaper went into the garbage-yet he was the universe, all the dying, all the crying. He was everyone who had ever died young.