Quotes from Diana Gabaldon

He was pressing himself against the wall as though trying to get through it by osmosis.

That's simple. You reason with them, and when you're through, I'll take them out and thrash them.

No, the fault lies with the artists," Claire went on. "The writers, the singers, the tellers of tales. It's them that take the past and re-create it to their liking. Them that could take a fool and give you back a hero, take a sot and make him a king.

I wondered what sort of man - or woman, perhaps? - had lain here, leaving no more than an echo of their bones, so much more fragile than the enduring rocks that sheltered them.

I like ye fat, Sassenach," he said softly. "Fat and juicy as a plump wee hen. I like it fine.

Now, then. What does 'fucking' mean?

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it. So.

If I die," he whispered in the dark, "dinna follow me. The bairns will need ye. Stay for them. I can wait.

You are mine," it had said. "Mine! And I will not let you go.

Is it true—that I won't forget?" He paused for a moment, hand on her hair. "Aye, that's true," he said softly. "But it's true, too, that it willna matter after a time.

I hold no evil in my heart...This evil does not touch me. More may come, but not this. Not here. Not now.

Never," he said, more softly. "For you are mine. My wife, my heart, my soul.

The vivid memory of the woods had blossomed into a visceral longing for the Ridge, so immediate that I felt the ghost of my vanished house rise around me, a cold mountain wind thrumming past its walls, and thought that, if I reached down, I could feel Adso's soft gray fur under my fingers. I swallowed, hard.

It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his—a lady novelist—who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal's art, in which one often mixed small portions of one's friends and one's enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.

I'm honest enough to say that I dinna care what the right and wrong of it may be, so long as you are here wi' me, Claire," he said softly. "If it was a sin for you to choose me Ã¢â'¬Â¦ then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it." He lifted my foot and gently kissed the tip of my big

I mean to take my time about it, aye?

People plan their reading? Takes all kinds… Books just find me. They converge upon me like flocks of benevolent vultures. They follow me home, wagging their tails. I'm pretty sure they breed in the dark, too, like mushrooms. When I finish a book, I pick up whatever looks most appealing from the tottering piles at hand.

My father always said that was the difference between an American and an Englishman. An Englishman thinks a hundred miles is a long way; an American thinks a hundred years is a long time.

You know these things. — And yet, somehow, you never think it will be today.

The world and each day in it is a gift, mo chridhe—no matter what tomorrow may be.

It's as though, knowing that everything is possible, suddenly nothing is necessary.

Feelings aren't truth

I believe you," he said firmly. "I dinna understand it a bit—not yet—but I believe you. Claire, I believe you! Listen to me! There's the truth between us, you and I, and whatever ye tell me, I shall believe it." He gave me a gentle shake. "It doesna matter what it is. You've told me. That's enough for now. Be still, mo duinne. Lay your head and rest. You'll tell me the rest of it later. And I'll believe you.

No hay respuestas, sino elecciones.