Quotes from Francesca Lia Block

They were laughing and their hair was shining like leaves in moonlight, their limbs long as saplings. I thought, Girls are magical at this phase, girls are invincible, nothing can touch them. I didn't think 'us' because I didn't feel that; I felt other, on the outside, watching them.

Life was small but good. (15)

It wasn't that shocking kind of feeling they both expected. More like a huge sigh of relief spreading through them. Like your cold, naked body falling into a soft, warm bed, under covers, into arms. The place that you knew you needed but you were afraid to even imagine for fear that it would never come.

It's scary to feel this much in such a dangerous world. Even if what you feel, overwhelmingly, like inhaling the precious, still-surviving existing earth, is not fear but love.

One of the best things about sex with a Banshee, however, is that she will make her needs known freely.

culturally idolized beauty is not only foolproof, but potentially dangerous.

The mint and honeysuckle air is chilly on her damp face, awake on the nape of her neck as Witch Baby Wigg skates home.

Like Beauty. But she only pricked her finger. I had a spindle through my heart.

Spun sugar clouds and extraterrestrial crystal vintage T-birds flying through space, morning-glory girls swinging from star-hung vines in cosmic gardens.

Hopefully, when you are young, you discover something called love, which is really just another name for going home.

Be love because you are.

Whatever love meant there was some version of it that I felt for Winter. And it didn't matter if he felt that for me or not or if it was real love or just my sadness about my dad that had turned into longing. Love, that elusive leading lady, plays too many parts to be typecast.

When you look at pain as material it makes all the difference in the world. I thought, the pain that is too big to be eased by its use as material would be a pain I couldn't (and wouldn't want to) even imagine.

I always wondered what it must be like to lose a twin—if somehow Mary felt it like it was happening to her. If she felt physical pain.

You'll have to take me to some museums," he said. He was being the young man on the road, following the sun because gray weather made him suicidal, writing his poetry in his mind in diners and gas station men's rooms across the country.

She was free, still, like a child, the way it is before you are seen and then after that you can never remember who you are unless someone else shows it to you.

But me, maybe I fit in a place like this. Maybe the cold inside of me will seem less cold in this winter. Maybe the tall buildings will make the brick walls I build for myself seem smaller. Maybe the noises in my head will quiet down in the middle of all the other noises. Or maybe my cold and walls and noise will get worse.

You have to imagine things before you can do them. Stories help us see.

Are you? What? What you once were? I can't remember.

Being a good mother is being a hero. Right?

If we don't write our stories, how will we truly know who we are? How will we define the world? How will we touch the mysteries of life?

My breath clouded the air like a little ghost escaping from my body.

He slid his hands around behind me and placed his fingers on my shoulder blades, touching the bones reverently, as if he had discovered wings.

This way she could feel the rush of warm air, blowing back her hair as if she were a plant. She could go out into the night and become a part of it and forget who she was.