Quotes from Libba Bray

Dans chaque fin, il y a un début.

I stare at the pile of discarded remnants and think of my mother. Did she touch that pillar there? Does her scent still linger in a fragment of glass or a splinter of wood? A terrible emptiness settles into my chest. No matter how much I go about living, there are always small reminders that make the loss fresh again.

He's attracted to the smell of manure, Felicity says. You might wallow in the stables to bring out the full flower of his love.

You have been deceived. Spiritualism is no more a science than thievery. For that's all this is--very skilled dodgers stealing money from the bereaved for a little glint of hope. People see what they want to see when they need to.

On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.

It was a kiss small in its ministrations but epic in its feeling.

I'm whining. It's unattractive, but I find I'm powerless to stop

God save me from a woman's tears, for I've no strength against them.

People want to be safe, not free.

You must work always to understand your own heart so that it cannot be used against you.

You look very handsome, Papa, I say. The twinkle is back in his eyes. Smoke and mirrors, he says with a wink. Smoke and mirrors.

I am for hockey. I find I should like to hit something with a stick. -Gemma Doyle Trilogy

I understand we'll be attending your friend Miss Worthington's Christmas ball. Perhaps I'll find a suitable-- which is to say wealthy-- wife among the ladies attending. And perhaps they will run screaming for the convent.

He deserves to have his head on a spike for all to see. Waring: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.

You must be the change you want to see in the world.

The wind has shifted to the East. A storm isn't far off. I can smell the moisture in the air, a fetid, living thing. Isolated drops fall, licking at my hands, my face, my dress. The quests squawk in surprise, turn their palms up to the sky as if questioning it, and dash for cover.

She holds up a finger. I'm getting to it. Don't rush a girl in the middle of her exposition.

You know, people, just being beautiful isn't enough. Tiara looked confused. But... it always has been.

Writers are also sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.

the mural, there were painted lines for the Underground, like scars stretched across the skin of the infected nation. There were wounds and then there were wounds.

Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala, I say with an affected bow.

Idealism is just an escape from reality. There is no utopia.

It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves.

Why does it always seem that I have only the shadow of my father? I'm like a child constantly grabbing at his coattails and missing.