Quotes from Juliet Marillier

Human memory is a strange thing," he observed. "How it comes and goes. How sometimes folk tuck the past away so deep they forget it's there at all. The human mind is full of byways, dead ends, locked chambers. Strongboxes guarding matters too painful to be brought into the light; dusty corners where items considered too trivial are tossed away. You'll remember one day. And if you do not, perhaps it is no matter.

His touch warmed my whole body. I was longing to throw my arms around him and hold him close, but the magic of this moment was like a single, lovely strand of cobweb, fragile and delicate. One wrong move and it would snap beyond mending.

We're all trapped in a net of consequences, condemned to paths outside our control. It's the way of things.

There is the darkness of a moonless night out of doors, and there is the darkness of a house with its shutters closed and the lamps quenched. There is the darkness of sleep, relieved by the bright images of dreams. But no darkness is as complete, as blanketing, as terrifying as the utter darkness of underground.

About happy endings. Folk like a story to finish well. Doesn't matter if that's true to life or not. Helps to hear about folk being content. About good folk getting what they deserve. While you're listening you can believe, for a bit, that you're good too. Worth a happy ending.

There were those whose love spilled over into their every gesture, and so was shared by all who knew them. But they were rare folk indeed.

Though it was dark, I could see how his eyes came alive with enthusiasm and the way he used his hands to illustrate with surprising grace. There were hidden depths beneath that impassive exterior. A sweet kernel shielded by a tough shell; dancing fire concealed in stone.

Three children lay on the rocks at the water's edge. A dark-haired girl, two boys, slightly older. This image is caught forever in my memory, like some fragile creature preserved in amber.

What came next is very hard to tell. Indeed, I have told it but once before, when I needed to, and I will tell it this time only becaude it forms a strand in the fabric of my story, and it wove itself into what came after.

I had learned how it felt to want more than the sweet touch of hand to cheek or lips to palm, more than a kiss, more than an embrace. I was starting to discover that it is not only the mind that understands love, but also the body.

Bran dissera, uma vez, que a confiança era um conceito sem qualquer significado. Mas, se não podíamos confiar, ficávamos sós, porque nem a amizade, nem a sociedade, nem a família, nem a aliança, podiam existir sem confiança. Sem ela ficávamos dispersos, à mercê dos quatro ventos, sem nada a que nos agarrarmos.

All the same, our eyes spoke of something good, something deep, something that could grow and flower if the world we lived in would allow it. Something too precious to put into words. Something I would not dare let out into the light of day, not yet.

Can this be love that twists and tears the heart so? Does love give nothing but the power to hurt each other? Is this what makes the simplest touch blend longing and terror in equal measure? Whatever this is, it feels like a mortal wound.

Tales within tales. Dreams within dreams. Pattern on pattern and path beyond path. For such short-lived folks, the human kind seem determined to make things as complicated as possible for themselves.

You are a devious woman, Blackthorn,' she said. 'I prefer the term strategic thinker.

My heart. Your heart.

You are a child no longer, whatever you might wish. You are a woman with a woman's body, and you do not think or feel as you did back there at Sevenwaters, when you ran wild in the forest and the trees spread their canopy to shelter you. Men will look at you. Come to terms with it, Sorcha. You cannot hide forever. They will look at you with desire in their eyes. You were taken against your will, and it damaged you. But life goes on.

Look forward, not back, the Hag said. All is change. Do not regret. Instead, learn.

His touch was like a bard's on his instrument, and it awakened a deep and mysterious music in my body.

Somewhere, beneath that darkness, I had seen both strength and honor. But his words of despair mocked my efforts at healing.

I would hold on, and hold on, until my hands clutch at emptiness.

Part of me has turned wild, and another part's turned dark as endless night, and I'm not going to change back just because someone says I must.

That's what it is to be a hero," Ríordán says. "It's fighting on even when you're hopelessly outnumbered. It's seeing your friends dying all around you, witnessing the most shocking cruelty you could imagine, and still finding the courage to go on. It's doing the very best you can.

But there are two sides to every fight. It starts from something small, a chance remark, a gesture made lightly. It grows from there. Both sides can be unjust. Both can be cruel.