Quotes from Diana Gabaldon

I was convinced by now that his feelings for Laoghaire were only those of a chivalrous friendship, but I didn't know what he might do if he knew that his uncle had seduced the girl and got her with child.

It's my fault, I said softly. I touched his face, the thick brows, wide mouth, and the sprouting stubble along the clean,long jaw. Mine. If I hadn't come...and told you what would happen... I felt a true sorrow for his corruption, and shared a sense of loss for the naïve, gallant lad he had been. And yet...what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were? I had had to tell him, and he had had to act on it.

The body forms internal scars as well as surface scars when a wound heals—and so does the mind.

Tu eÈ™ti curajul meu, aÈ™a cum eu sunt conÈ™tiinÈ›a ta, mi-a È™optit. Tu eÈ™ti inima mea, iar eu, compasiunea ta. Singuri, nu suntem întregi. Nu È™tiai asta, englezoaico?

It was in a way a comforting idea; if there was all the time in the world, then the happening of a given moment became less important. I could see, perhaps, how one could draw back a little, seek some respite in the contemplation of an endless Being, whatever one conceived its nature to be.

Beans, beans, they're good for your heart," I said cheerily, seizing the opening. "The more you eat, the more you fart. The more you fart, the better you feel—so let's have beans for every meal!

Hello," I said softly, one hand over the butterfly wings that beat inside me.

You said you could tear me limb from limb without touching me, I said. You were right, damn you. I am sorry, he whispered again, but this time he reached for me, and held me tight against him. That I loved you? Don't be sorry for that, I said, my voice half muffled in his shirt. Not ever.

Well, that's the hell of it, isn't it?" she said, turning away. "You never know, but you have to act anyway, don't you?

I suppose so." An oath was an oath, though I rather wondered if Hippocrates ever ran into this sort of situation himself. Possibly he did; the ancient Greeks were a violent lot, too. The

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.

We're going home, Sassenach. To Lallybroch.

Would it be better if I'd had daughters?" she asked the mirror, in apparent earnestness. "No," she answered herself. "They'd only marry men, and there you are.

Sometimes I want to ride you like a wild horse, and bring you to the taming—did you know that? I can do it, you know I can. Drag you over the edge and drain you to a gasping husk. I can drive you to the edge of collapse and sometimes I delight in it

He was generally aware that he had been blessed in her beauty; even in her usual homespun, knee-deep in mud from her garden, or stained and fierce with the blood of her calling, the curve of her bones spoke to his own marrow, and those whisky eyes could make him drunk with a glance. Besides, the mad collieshangie of her hair made him laugh.

And then later, at the funeral, members of the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.

But war's war, Sassenach. Honor only makes it a bit easier to live wi' yourself, afterward.

Good sex scene is about the exchange of emotions, not bodily fluids

accept the notion of one's own mortality, and yet live fully, was a paradox worthy of Socrates.

Ye always carry your women wi' ye into battle, Ian Òg. They're the root of your strength, man.

There aren't many people like that—who will tell you the truth about themselves and anything else right out. I've only met three people like that, I think—four now," she said, her smile widening to warm him. "There was

An unaccustomed weed of jealousy sprang up in Jamie's heart, stinging like nettles. He stamped firmly on it; he was fortunate indeed to know that his son enjoyed a loving relationship with his stepfather. There, that was the weed stamped out. The stamping, though, seemed to have left a small bruised spot on his heart; he could feel it when he breathed.

It's like a little fortress, where the most private part of you lives - maybe it's your soul, maybe just that bit that makes you yourself and not anyone else.

Being in a state of grace is all very well, but I imagine even Joan of Arc had qualms when they lit the first brand.