Quotes from Diana Gabaldon

He said, 'If you're sizable, half the men ye meet will fear ye, and the other half will want to try ye. Knock one down,' he said, 'and the rest will let ye be. But learn to do it fast and clean, or you'll be fightin' all your life.

It's always better if they see. Then they don't imagine things. So I didn't imagine, I remembered.

Respectability had its uses. I wondered idly how many spymasters had thought of using elderly ladies? You didn't hear about old women as spies—but then again, that might merely indicate how good they were at it.

Yoksul insanlar zengin adam?n alt?nlar? için ölür ve bu her zaman da böyle olacak, deÄŸil mi?

The love of you has led me to my salvation, and to what I thought was my peace, once I thought ye dead. ...And here you are. ...I shall have no peace while ye live, woman. ...Mind, I dinna say I regret it.

I am a Highlander," Jamie said bleakly. He glanced once more at the far bank, where occasional glimpses of tartan showed through the mist, and then back. The shouting echoed from the fog. "And I am the sire of Americans.

As Grey put his hand on the pommel, he heard a low Scots voice murmur in his ear: "Queen's rook to king eight. Check." Grey laughed out loud, a burst of exhilaration pushing aside his disquiet. "Ha," he said, though without raising his voice. "Queen's bishop to knight four. Check. And mate, Mr Ã¢â'¬Â¦ MacKenzie.

There was a rustle near his ear, and he turned his head to see the crow. It stood on the grass a foot away, a blotch of wind-ruffled black feathers, regarding him with a bead-bright eye. Deciding that he posed no threat, it swiveled its neck with casual ease and jabbed its thick sharp bill into Jack Randall's eye.

We passed the rest of the day in pleasant conversation, wandering among his reminiscences of the dear departed days when men were men, and the pernicious weed of civilization was less rampant upon the bonny wild face of the Highlands.

I have noticed," she said slowly, "that time does not really exist for mothers, with regard to their children. It does not matter greatly how old the child is

James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.

My parents would take my sister and me out for dinner now and then, and while waiting for the food to be served, would point out the oldest, most harried looking waitress in the place, saying sternly, "Be sure you get a good education, so you don't have to do that when you're fifty!

A man killed with a musket was just as dead as one killed with a mortar. It was just that the mortar killed impersonally, destroying dozens of men, while the musket was fired by one man who could see the eyes of the one he killed. That made it murder, it seemed to me, not war. How many men to make a war? Enough, perhaps, so they didn't really have to see each other?

It took two days, and God kens well that I recall every second of those days—yet it seems that I lost her between one heartbeat and the next. And I—I keep lookin' for her there, in that space between.

Futility. Uselessness. Bloody entrophy. Death matters, at least sometimes.

So far as Grey's own opinion counted, a love that sacrificed honor was less honest than simple lust, and degraded those who professed to glory in it.

It was very, very peaceful, and all of a sudden I found myself shaking so hard that I had to sit down on the stream bank. Anytime. It could happen anytime, and just this fast. I wasn't sure which seemed most unreal; the bear's attack, or this, the soft summer night, alive with promise. I rested my head on my knees, letting the sickness, the residue of shock, drain away.

I had seen even well-established marriages shatter under the strain of smaller things. And those that did not shatter, but were crippled by mistrust

You underestimate your own merits, John—as always. Of course, nothing becomes manly virtue more than simple modesty.

Might he ever see Jamie Fraser again? There was a good chance he would not. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might. The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His quill had dried; he did not dip it again. I love you, he wrote, the strokes light and fast, making scarcely a mark upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were not so. Then he rose, scooped up the scribbled papers, and, crushing them into a ball, threw them into the fire.

people so often seemed not only willing but eager to believe the worst—and the worse, the better.

Mm. You'd forgotten how to say anything except 'I love you,' but you said that a lot.

It was very quiet here on the mountainside, but, quiet in the of hills and forests. A quiet that wasn't silent at all, but composed of constant tiny sounds. It was small buzzing in the gorse bush nearby, of bees working the yellow flowers -dusty with pollen, far below was the rushing of the burn, a low note echoing the wind above stirring leaves and rattling twigs sighing past the jutting boulders.

must have stayed that way for some time; I slept sometimes, dreaming of the last few days of the Jacobite Rising—I saw again the dead man in the wood, asleep beneath a coverlet of bright blue fungus, and Dougal MacKenzie dying on the floor of an attic in Culloden House; the ragged men of the Highland army, asleep in the muddy ditches; their last sleep before the slaughter. I would wake screaming or moaning