Quotes from Julianna Baggott

Weakness, like not being able to bury the past. Weakness, like not giving up hope when you know you should.

Is it wrong to kill something that wants to kill you?

Cuando te conocí, pensé que estábamos hecho el uno para el otro, a pesar de que, en algunos sentidos, parecíamos muy distintos y no parábamos de pelearnos. Pero ahora... —¿El qué? —Ahora no creo que estemos hechos el uno para el otro, sino que nos estamos haciendo el uno al otro, para convertirnos en las personas que seremos. ¿Sabes a lo que me refiero.

I prefer true over happy now.

Recuerdo que lo feo es lo que hace que lo bonito sea bonito.

Es bonita la cicatriz —le dice el chico. El corazón le da un vuelco y se lleva la cabeza de muñeca al pecho. —¿Bonita? Es una cicatriz. —Es una señal de haber sobrevivido.

She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.

If home isn't a place, what is it?' 'A feeling.

Love is a luxury. It's something that people are allowed to indulge in when they're not simply trying to survive and keep other people alive.

Our love is our burden.

I feel too much. It's like being drummed to death from within. You know?

Scars are good. Right, Helmud? It's the body's way of making armour.

She glances back before stepping into the alley, and she catches her grandfather looking at her the way he does sometimes--as if she's already gone, as if he's practicing sorrow.

La suerte es relativa.

Los niños quieren a sus padres, aunque estos no se lo merezcan; es inevitable.

So far, I should be calm and more specifically not like that...Anything else? Would you like to do surgery on my personality? How about open-heart surgery? I´ve got some tools

But there it is: Everyone is alone, for life, and maybe that's not such a bad thing.

The world is frenzied—giving and taking.

These are the little things that people should really appreciate, simple pleasures.

I screamed. You told me not to." He rubs at the soot on one hand with his thumb, then stares at it. "The dirt," he says, his voice strangely peaceful. "What about it?" she asks. "It's dirty.

But she's still afraid that the more she misses him--his face, his skin, the way he looked at her--and the more hope she has that she'll see him again, the more she has to lose.

Are there books about us or something?" This makes Pressia angry - the idea that this world is a subject of study, a story, instead of filled with real people, trying to survive.

I always think I know the way a novel will go. I write maps on oversized art pads like the kind I carried around in college when I was earnest about drawing. I need to have some idea of the shape of the novel, where its headed, so that I can proceed with confidence. But the truth is my characters start doing and saying things I don't expect.

I try not to divide plot and character. I get to know a character by what they want and fear and how those internal forces play out in their lives.