Quotes from Libba Bray

Grinning, he grabbed his fisherman's cap and coat. "I love you," he whispered quietly. "Ikh hob dikh lib." He kissed Evie's head. She rustled in her sleep, turning away. "Fine. I see how it is. I just wasted my best Yiddish on you," Sam joked to himself.

These words have been sanitized for your protection. An adjective and a noun, respectively.

No, you're right. I shan't ever understand your willingness to lie down and die, Felicity barks. If you won't at least try to fight, I have no sympathy for you.

It was a thread woven through all of humankind: this need for story to explain the unexplainable, to comfort the hurting, to promise that no one was alone. Evie's uncle Will had said there was no greater power on earth than story. And in this shared moment, Memphis knew that it was so.

That's what he always did, tell a joke or find someone else when things began to feel like something genuine. Well, he was tired of feeling haunted - by Louis, by his father's disappointment, and his mother's illness. He'd let himself fill up with ghosts of shame until there was no room for love. No more. No more.

Sam grabbed one of Jericho's Civil War soldier figurines and held it up to his mouth. Oh, Jericho, he said in a high-pitched voice. Take me in your arms, you big he-man, you!

Why had this power come to me? I can scarcely govern myself. At times, I feel as if I could dance through the halls with happiness, and then, just as suddenly, my thoughts are dark and lost and frightening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Felicity and Ann hunched over their ornaments as if they were fascinating relics from an archaeological dig. I note that their shoulders are trembling, and I realize that they are fighting laughter over my terrible plight. There's friendship for you.

I can't help feeling humiliated for Ithal. He stands at the wall and watches us go, and when we reach the turnoff for the school, he's still there with the mangled flower in his hands, far behind us a small, dying star fading out of our constellation.

Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.

Swell. Isn't there some kinda ghost primer in this joint: Reading, Writing, 'Rithmetic, Ridding Yourself of Soul-Stealing Demons for Fun and Profit? Why isn't there ever anything useful around here?" Mabel handed Sam a watercress sandwich. "Thanks, Mabes.

Stache off- there is nothing wrong with you,..that can't be fixed.

For all who believe that peace is not an ideal or pipe dream but anecessity. ~Libba Bray They believe, and believing changes everything. ~Gemma, The sweet far thing, Libba Bray Bu the past cannot be changed, and we carry our choices with us forward, into the unknown. ~Circe, The sweet far thing, Libba Bray Stop, gemma, before you go mad. Or am I already there? ~Gemma, The sweet far thing, Libba Bray peace is not only better than war, but infinitely more aruous. ~George Shaw

Long shadows of evening creep up the walls, inching closer. Gradually, they reach fully across us, holding us in the stillness that only night can bring. In the hazy gloom of dusk, we are silhouettes of ourselves, reduced to our very essence. The night grows bolder. Unafraid, it opens its mouth and swallows us whole.

It's knowing that I'll never have what she has—a beauty so powerful it brings things to you. I fear I will always have to chase the things I want. I'll always have to wonder whether I'm truly wanted or whether I've just been settled for.

She holds and I do not break away, and that is something after all. We lie there, tethered to each other by the fragile promise of our fingers while the night grows bolder. Unafraid, it opens its mouth and swallows us whole.

And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

There are no girl books. There are no boy books. There are just books.

Miss Temple, perhaps you will demonstrate the proper curtsy for us? Without ado, Cecily temple, She Who Can Do No Wrong, settles to the floor in a long, slow, graceful arc that seems to defy gravity. It is a thing of beauty. I am hideously jealous. Thank you, Miss Temple. Yes. Thank you, you little demon beast. May you marry a man who eats garlic with every meal.

Dear, dear Cecily, or as I affectionately refer to her in the privacy of my mind, She Who Inflicts Misery Simply by Breathing.

We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be. Walk! Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.

Ain't that the way of the world, now? Good luck turns bad. Bad luck turns good. Just a big rolling craps game played between this world and the next, and we the dice getting tossed around.

No. It is impossible to maintain a smile in my brother's presence. Monks haven't the sort of patience required.

We take such pains to be polite. We never say what we mean. For all it matters, we could greet each other and speak only of cheese - How was your Limburger, miss? Salty as a ripe Stinking Bishop, thank you. Ah, very cheddar, miss. I'll have your Stilton brought to your Camembert, then. - and no one would likely notice.