Quotes from Diana Gabaldon

Every legend has one foot on the truth.

You know what scholars are like; no conscience at all when it comes to their own field, let alone a sense of social delicacy.

What I wonder about the dreams is—all the new inventions people think up—how many of those things are made by people like me—like us? How many "inventions" are really memories, of the things we once knew? And—how many of us are there?

This was not significantly assuaged by the reappearance of John, followed by the Duke of Pardloe. Jamie said something remarkably creative in Gàidhlig, and I gave him a look of startled appreciation.

Restlessly, I moved around the surgery, picking things up and putting them down again.

I meant no offense," he added a moment later, in a softer tone. "I was surprised." I looked at him directly. I was too tired to be tactful. "And a bit jealous, perhaps?

Ye wouldna linger to smell flowers when ye think your shit might turn to ice before ye've got it all the way out.

EVEN WHEN THE world ends, things bloody go on happening. You just don't know what to do about them.

What is it, love? I whispered. Jamie, I do love you. I know it, he said quietly. I do know it, my own. Let me tell ye in your sleep how much I love you. For there's no so much I can be saying to ye while ye wake, but the same poor words, again and again. While ye sleep in my arms, I can say things to ye that would be daft and silly waking, and your dreams will know the truth of them. Go back to sleep, mo duinne.

Penstemon, overhearing

remembering so acutely Jamie's flesh and weight and ardor, and so urgently wanted him to be Jamie that I had succeeded for an instant in thinking that he was, only to be crushed like a grape at the realization that he wasn't, all my soft insides spurting out. Had he felt or thought the same things, waking to find me there beside him?

I want you Claire. I want you so much I can scarcely breathe. Will you have me?

reason returned, and I calmed

But I remember talking with Mr. Garrick once in London, and his reference to the playwright as a little god who directs the actions of his creations, exerting absolute control upon them. Mrs. Cowley argued with this, saying that it is delusion to assume that the creator controls his creations and that an attempt to exert such control while ignoring the true nature of those creations is doomed to failure.

I hope I don't," she said. "But she said—Laoghaire—" She stumbled on the name. "L'heery," Ian corrected.

He realized suddenly that every fragment of Fraser's being was focused on the scene outside. Of course; he had not seen Willie since the boy was twelve. And to see the two together—his daughter and the son he could never speak to or acknowledge. He would have touched Fraser, put a hand on his arm in sympathy, but knowing the probable effect of his touch, forbore to do it.

I wouldna tell ye if I did," he said, just as quietly. "But I don't." "Would you warn him—if you could?" Grey asked. He oughtn't, but was possessed by curiosity. "I would," Fraser replied without hesitation. He turned round now and looked down at Grey, expressionless. "He was once my friend." So was I, Grey thought, and took more brandy. Am I now again? But not even the most exigent curiosity would make him ask.

I wish Jane would haunt me." The words weren't much above a whisper, but I heard it clearly enough, and my heart clenched. The memory of that sort of wish—the bone-deep need to have contact of any sort, a longing that harrowed the soul, a hollowness that could never be filled—struck me so hard that I couldn't speak.

Oh, don't you?" Nicholls raised one honey-colored brow at him and glanced briefly but meaningfully at Miss Woodford. His tone was jocular, but his look was not, and Grey wondered just how much Mr. Nicholls had had to drink. Nicholls was flushed of cheek and glittering of eye, but that might be only the heat of the room, which was considerable, and the excitement of the party

Not for the first time, Grey wondered at a religion which rejected so many of the things that made life tolerable. Perhaps it sprang from an intent to make heaven seem that much more desirable by contrast to a life from which pleasure had been largely removed.

It's no just the bedding, ye ken," he said, drawing back a little at last. His eyes looked down at me, a soft deep blue like the warm tropic sea. "No," I said, touching his cheek. "It isn't." "To have ye with me again—to talk wi' you—to know I can say anything, not guard my words or hide my thoughts—

Live and let live was my basic attitude.

Do it, I thought, in an agony of apprehension. For God's sake, do it now and don't be gentle!

There must have been some sound that made me look up, but I wasn't aware of having raised my head. John Grey was standing in the doorway of my room. His neckcloth was missing and his shirt hung limp on his shoulders, wine spilled down the front of it. His hair was loose and tangled, and his eyes as red as mine. I stood up, slow, as though I were underwater. "I will not mourn him alone tonight," he said roughly, and closed the door.