Quotes from Libba Bray

The line between faith and fanaticism is a constantly shifting one," Dr. Poblocki said. "When does belief become justification? When does right become rationale and crusade become crime?

Why does everyone want to own me? Pippa mumbles. She's got her head in her hands. Why do they all want to control my life -- how I look, whom I see, what I do or don't do? Why can't they just let me alone? Because you're beautiful, Ann answers, watching the fire lick her palm. People always think they can own beautiful things.

My cholera's acting up again.

We've left the moment. It's gone. We're somewhere else now, and that's okay. We've still got that moment with us somewhere, deep in our memory, seeping into our DNA. And when our cells get scattered , whenever that happens, this moment will still exist in them. Those cells might be the building block of something new. A planet or star or a sunflower, a baby. Maybe even a cockroach. Who knows? Whatever it is, it'll be a part of us, this thing right here and now, and we'll be a part of it.

One can never go back. One always has to move forward.

Ahem. Dear Jesus, Taylor intoned more fervently. We just want to thank you for gettin' us here safe --- There was a loud, gurgling groan. Somebody shouted, Oh my gosh! Miss Delaware just died! --- for gettin some of us here safe, Taylor continued. And we pray that, as we are fine, upstandin', law-abidin' girls who represent the best of the best, you will protect us from harm and keep us safe until we are rescued and can tell our story to People magazine. Amen. - Beauty Queens

Travel opens your mind as few other things do.

The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves.

All the times I say, 'Don't see me'? With you, I wish I had an opposite power: See me. See me, Evie. See all of me. There's a fella who loves you right here. I'm not perfect. I'm a handful. But you know what? So are you. There. Not sugarcoating it.

It's Yiddish. Like…Ikh hob dikh lib." Evie narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "What does that mean?" Sam smiled. "Maybe one day I'll tell you.

How do people stay in love, anyway? Is it a choice? Or is it like those plants we studied in biology that mutate into something new and totally different but are still part of the same plant family?

I am starting a collection of only right-hand gloves. It's ever so bourgeois to have two.

Look, I know this seems a little half-assed...' 'No, dude. I'd be thrilled if this plan were half-assed. This is, like, no-assed.' 'You're right. It's the most no-assed thing I've ever done in my life.

He plants his feet stubbornly, adopting what he must think is an heroic post. He's just begging for a pigeon to fly by and relieve itself.

Everything is randomly connected.

Meraa mitra yahaan aaiye, he murmurs. I understand only a little Hindi, enough to know what he has said: Come here, my friend. I've never known a braver girl, he says.

You don't know me, dude, he says, not smiling this time. Gonzo examines his cards, prepping for his next move. People always think that they know other people, but they don't. Not really. I mean, maybe they know things about them, like they won't eat doughnuts or they like action movies or whatever. But they don't know what their friends do in their rooms alone at night or what happened to them when they were kids or if they feel ****ed up for no reason at all.

Could I have a Sloe Gin Fizz, without the gin? What's the point of that, Miss? the waiter said. Tomorrow morning, Mabel said.

I don't have time to feel sorry for myself. I've got to think.

If there was one truth Evie had learned in her short life, it was that forgiveness was easier to seek than permission. She didn't plan to ask for either one.

The sun has blessed you, Sarita used to say. Look how he has left his kisses on your face for all to see and be jealous. The sun loves you more, I said, rubbing my hands over her dry arms, the color of an aged wine gourd, and she laughed. But this is not India and we are not prized for our freckles here. The sun is not allowed to show his love.

We're all looking glasses, we girls, existing only to reflect their images back to them as they'd like to be seen. Hollow vessels of girls to be rinsed of our own ambitions, wants, and opinions, just waiting to be filled with the cool, tepid water of gracious compliance.

The face staring back at me isn't beautiful but she isn't something that would scare the horses, either.

Does my new feminism make me look fat?