Quotes from Anthony Doerr

O tempo é algo escorregadio: segure com firmeza, ou seu encadeamento pode escoar de suas mãos para sempre.

There is magic in this world...You just have to sit and breathe and wait and it will find you.

beach. Everyone who can must work to strengthen

There is only chance in this world, chance and physics. Anyway

Here is this! Here is this! Ecco Roma! Bursting out of the sun, streaking through space, skirting Venus, just over eight minutes old, but eternal, too, infinite—here comes the light, nameless and intangible, streaming 93 million unobstructed miles through the implacable black vacuum to break itself against a wall, a cornice, a column. It drenches, it crenellates, it textures.

Everybody has misplaced someone

All month the ice muttered and howled and whistled. The trees echoed back and forth among themselves. Taken collectively, the sound was of deep wounding, of winter inexorably taking the life out of things.

What a fool I was. What was this hunger that drove me to seek more than what I already had?

There is the humility of being a father to someone so powerful, as if he were only a narrow conduit for another, greater think.

know why those librarians read the old stories to you," Rex says. "Because if it's told well enough, for as long as the story lasts, you get to slip the trap.

turning scarlet in her mind

Starlight rains onto every crenellation.

I," she says, "am Aethon, a simple shepherd from Arkadia, and—

The afternoon is bright enough, but Berlin seems not to want to accept the sunlight, as though its buildings have become gloomier and dirtier and more splotchy int he months since he last visited. Though perhaps what has changed are the eyes that see it.

one with a rifle and the other wearing headphones.

wearing a look not of disappointment but tired amusement.

make the raised dots form letters, the letters words, the words a world.

Marie-Laure hesitates over the open door, smelling the fires from outside and the clammy, almost opposite smell washing up from the bottom. Smoke: her great-uncle says it is a suspension of particles, billions of drifting carbon molecules. Bits of living rooms, cafés, trees. People.

Every time he blinks, a memory ripples across the undersides of his eyelids:

Jules Verne: Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth.

Or maybe the stone was never real at all. Maybe it was all hoax, all story.

When all you have is a shard of papyrus with a few words on it...or a single line quoted in somebody else's text, the potential of what's lost haunts you. It's like the boys who died in Korea. We grieve them the most because we never saw the men they would become....How much easier it was to be a hero when you no longer walked the earth.

the sound of the sea washes away all other sounds

All of it burning. Every memory he ever made. Above Fort National, the dawn becomes deeply, murderously clear. The Milky Way a fading river. He looks across to the fires. He thinks: The universe is full of fuel.