Quotes About Individuality

Fight your fight," she tells me. "Let someone else worry about theirs.

Algunos entre nosotros no encuentran a los mortales hermosos. De hecho, algunos de ustedes podrían jurar que Jude es poco atractiva. Pero yo creo que es sólo que su belleza es... única. Enloquecedora. Alarmante. Angustiante.

Fight your fight,' she tells me. 'Let someone else worry about theirs.

You're not like other girls," Aidan said, pressing her back against the cushions of the couch. "You're cool." Tana tried to be cool, tried to act as if it didn't bother her when he flirted with anything that moved—and, that one time, when he was really drunk, with a coatrack.

Fix your hair,' she says, then shrugs again. 'Or make it wilder. You look lovely either way.

What would I become if I sttoped worrying about death, about pain, about anything? If I stopped trying to belong?

how am I supposed to be worse than the folk ?

And I'm not afraid of your trying to figure out what it means to be your whole self

We're not sorting sand because of Call. We're sorting sand because of me. - Tamara

Even if, by some miracle, I could be better than them, I will never be one of them

as though she was the only real thing in a land of ghosts.

What if the way I am is the way I am? What if, when everything else is different, I'm not?

I don't mind being one-handed,' Cardan interjects. 'But if you're going to restrain both of my hands, then you'll have to pour the wine directly in to my mouth.

Fight your fight," Let someone else worry about theirs." -Grima Mog

I am no Court lady with lips of carmine and butterflies in my hair. I am scrawny, like a stick bug.

I don't want to be a creature, shaped by their hands and quickened with their blood. Something made like a doll, from snow and sticks. An assemblage of parts, stranger even than the sluagh.

Normal people," they'd say with a shudder. "Normal people think they're happy, but that because they're too dumb to know any different. Better to be miserable and interesting, right, kiddo?

Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes.

Hell is oneself, Hell is alone. —T. S. ELIOT

Am I beautiful like you are?" I ask Nicasia, genuinely curious. "No," she says, darting a look toward Valerian. She picks up something from the ground. "You are nothing like us.

Nicasia saunters over to where the smith is sitting. She wears a dress of purple that is peacock blue when it catches the light. Her hair is woven in to a braid that circles her head, and at her brow is a chain from which dangle dozens upon dozens of beads in sparkling purples and blues and amber.

Once, the thing I am wearing was a sundress, with fluttery sleeves. A diaphanous white gown that flowed around me when I spun. I found it in a shop late one night. I'd stripped off the clothes given to me in the Court of Teeth, left them behind, and put that on instead. I liked the dress so much that I wove myself a crown of hellebores and danced through the night streets. I stared at myself in puddles, convinced that as long as I didn't smile, I might even be pretty.

What could I become if I stopped worrying about death, about pain, about anything? If I stopped trying to belong? Instead of being afraid, I could become something to fear.

The only place you will be accepted is the place you make for yourself.