Quotes from Laini Taylor

Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

In truth, she had claim to no nationality. Her papers were all forgeries, and her accents -all except one, in her first language, which was not of human origin- were all fakes.

Don't look at me like that," said Ruza. "Like what?" "Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes.

Anhelar el amor la hacía sentir como un gato que siempre se enrosca en los tobillos maullando acaríciame, acaríciame, mírame,quiéreme. Preferiría ser el gato que observa todo con descaro desde lo alto de una pared, con expresión inescrutable. El gato que evita las caricias, que no las necesita. ¿Por qué no ser ese gato?

The goddess of assassins has tasted my blood, he thought, and he wondered if she liked it, and wanted more.

Never before had time seemed so like currency, each moment a coin that could be well- or ill-spent, or even, if one wasn't careful, wasted and lost.

The only tattoos visible as she dug out her sketchbook and handed it over were the ones on her wrists like bracelets - a single word on each: true and story.

Rushing, like wind through a door, and Karou was the door, and the wind was coming home, and she as also the wind. She was all: wind and home and door. She rushed into herself and was filled. She let herself in and was full.

En algún momento, Akiva tal vez hubiera sentido vergüenza por enamorarse de Madrigal. Ahora aquella vergüenza era lo único que lo avergonzaba. Amarla había sido el único acto puro de su vida.

Her face was luminous and hopeful; she'd go into the dark with him in a heartbeat, sharp teeth and all. Human girls were stupid that way. No, not stupid. Primal in their skin, without even knowing it. The things that made thier pulse quicken were all the wrong things, but Mihai didn't take advantage of it, except for the free tea.

Do you think it's over now, though? That he's through with me?" "One way you could make sure," said Chiro. She was glib, jesting - surely - but her eyes were bright. "You could die," she said. "Resurrect ugly. He'd leave you alone then.

wings—-vast shimmering wings, their reach so great they swept the walls on either side of the alley, each feather like the wind-tugged lick of a candle flame.

There was a man who loved the moon, but whenever he tried to embrace her, she broke into a thousand pieces and left him drenched, with empty arms. Sathaz had finally learned that if he climbed into the pool and kept very still, the moon would come to him and let him be near her. Only near, never touching. He couldn't touch her without shattering her, and so—as Lazlo had told Sarai—he had made peace with the impossible. He took what he could get.

Madrigal sniffed herself. "I'm almost sure I don't smell." "Maybe not, but between shining cleanliness and not smelling, there is a vast gray area.

Hay intimidad en el dolor. Cualquiera que haya consolado a alguien que sufre lo sabe —la indefensa ternura, los abrazos y susurros, y el lento balanceo conjunto mientras dos se vuelven uno contra el enemigo, el dolor—.

The monks kept a sharp eye on him, determined to keep him free of sin—and of joy, which, if not explicitly a sin, at least clears a path to it.

singing ballads whose words had never known paper but lived only on the rasping edge of their own voices.

Live bitter, so the crows will have no taste for you when you're dead.

Your entire being can become a scream. At the edge of a hurled knife, that fast. Karou's did. She wasn't flesh and blood in that instant but only air rushing in to gather for a scream that might never end.

Everyone else had managed to pick up the tatters and mend them into wearable lives. Why couldn't he?

She was lonely, and she feared the missingness within her as if it might expand and... cancel her.

N)ew dreams sprout up when old ones come true, like seedlings in a forest: a new generation of wishes.

And he was her one true person, settled and sure, for life

Here, captured between covers, was the history of the human imagination, and nothing had ever been more beautiful, or fearsome, or bizarre. Here were spells and curses and myths and legends, and Strange the dreamer had for so long fed his mind on them that if one could wander into it, they would discover a fantasia.