Quotes About Individuality

Liraz was special. Specially antisocial. Spectacularly, even.

We only get to be one person; we don't even get to choose that person. By the time we get ahold of ourselves, we are pieces already in play.

Am I the only non-idiot on the planet?" "Yes, Morgan Toth, you are," Gabriel piped up. "Will you be our king?

I shudder to think. I might wear lace collars and laugh flower petals and pearls. People might try to pat me. I see them think it. My height triggers the puppy-kitten reflex- Must touch-and I've found that since you can't electrify yourself like a fence, the next best thing is to have murderer's eyes.

Me & Mik. I've never been part of an ampersand before.

Every mind is a world of its own

She was the goddess of... herself . And he could not look away from her.

It was unreal how two souls could look out through the same set of eyes in such drastically different fashion, seeming to reshape them entirely.

He didn't think like other people. He didn't dismiss magic out of hand, and he didn't believe that fairy tales were just for children. He knew magic was real, because he'd felt it

But her name was Esmé. She was a girl with long, long, red, red hair. Her mother braided it. The flower shop boy stood behind her and held it in his hand. Her mother cut it off and hung it from a chandelier. She was Queen. Mazishta. Her hair was black and her handmaidens dressed it with pearls and silver pins. Her flesh was golden like the desert. Her flesh was pale like cream. Her eyes were blue. Brown.

Milquetoast girls raised on princess stories might sit tight and bat their eyelashes in desperate Morse code--notice me, like me, please--but I am not that girl.

When they had hurried to the train station with their violin cases, they had drawn almost as many stares as they would on any normal day when their hair was to their knees and sheeting behind them like red silk. A poetic fruit-seller had told them once that they looked like dryads, and they did still, only now they looked like dryads who had tired of snagging their hair on brambles and sliced it all off on the edge of a knife.

No le perteneces. Tampoco me perteneces a mi. Tú eres tu propio sueño.

She was the goddess of... herself.

Anyone who would wear all white like that clearly has issues

Be that cat! she reminded herself. The one that stayed out of reach, and never - ever purred.

For what was a person but the sum of all the scraps of their memory and experience: a finite set of components with an infinite array of expressions.

He said, "You don't have to be afraid, Karou. How could it be awful? It's *you.* You can only be beautiful.

So I ask you again, Lazlo Strange… who are you?

You don't have to be ashamed »

De su hombro colgaba un portafolio de dibujo y sobre su pelo - largo, suelto y de color azul eléctrico - se había formado un encaje de copos de nieve.

May she be her best possible self," because it seemed, in that moment, to be the truest of all wishes—not a betrayal of self that came from coveting others, but a deepening of self. A ripening. When

No importa lo que me suceda, se dijo a sí misma. Soy una entre un billón. Soy polvo de estrellas reunido momentáneamente en un cuerpo. Me desperdigaré. Algún día, ese polvo se transformará en otras cosas y yo seré libre. Como Brimstone es libre.

Every mind is its own world. Most occupy a vast middle ground of ordinary, while others are more distinct: pleasant, even beautiful, or sometimes slippery and unaccountably wrong-feeling.