Quotes About Poison

My sister thinks that she's the only one who can take poison, but I am poison,' he whispers, eyes half-closed, talking to himself. 'Poison in my blood. I poison everything I touch.

Mithridatism, it's called. Isn't that a funny name? The process of eating poison to build up immunity. So long as I don't die from it, I'll be harder to kill

I said ten years, but perhaps seven will be enough. That's not so long. Seven years of drinking poison, of never sleeping, of living on high alert. Seven more years, and then maybe Faerie will be a safer, better land. And I will have earned my place in it. The great game, Locke had called it when he accused me of playing it. I wasn't then, but I am now. And maybe I learned something from Locke. He made me into a story, and now I am going to make a story out of someone else.

Someone tried to kill me. Again. Poison. Again. Someone else tried to recruit me into a scheme where we would kill my sister and Cardan, so I could rule in their place. When I told them no, they tried to kill me. With a knife, that time.' 'A poisoned knife?' He laughed. 'No, just a regular one. But it hurt.

He is out in the garden, picking a bouquet of foxgloves. He's laughing, sunlight turning his brown hair gold… I bet he doesn't even know those flowers are poison.

I only hope he doesn't taste the bitterness of poison on my lips.

Poison may be a coward's weapon, but it's an effective one.

On my way out, I spot my little brother. He is out in the garden, picking a bouquet of foxgloves. He's laughing, sunlight turning his brown hair gold. When his nurse comes toward him, he darts away from her. I bet he doesn't even know that those flowers are poison.

Have I drunk too much? Merely a cup of poison for my breakfast and another for my dinner," Cardan says.

If he were going to put regular people to death, he'd probably use some kind of cheap, regular person poison.

My sister thinks that she's the only one who can take poison, but I am poison,' he whispers, eyes half-closed, talking to himself. 'Poison in my blood. I poison everything I touch.' That's such a strange thing to hear him say. Everyone adores him. And yet, I recall him running away at thirteen, sure so many things were his fault.

Cuando me permito pensarlo, no puedo culpar a Locke por elegirla a ella. Soy violenta. He estado envenenandome durante semanas. Soy asesina, una mentirosa y una espia

I poisoned you. Don't worry. It was a small dose. You'll live." "The cups of wine," he says. "But how did you know which one I would choose?" "I didn't," I tell him, thinking that he'll be at least a little pleased by the answer, despite himself. It is the kind of strategy he likes best. "I poisoned them both.

A drop of the bloodred liquid of the blusher mushroom , which causes potentially lethal paralysis. A petal of deathsweet, which can cause a sleep that lasts a hundred years. A sliver of wraithberry, which makes the blood race and induces a kind of wildness before stopping the heart. And a seed of everapple- faerie fruit- which muddles the minds of mortals.

They would not, however, have eaten him: such forms of Anti-life commonly subsist on venom, acid, poison, excrement, ground glass, and less mentionable substances.]

Something grows from eyes, taking root as if a potato sends to earth what it can see, and yet the seeing part is what they say is poisonous about the potato. That first sprout is what can grow, planted, moving upward, seeing in light.

A petty one, but most resentments are. And one that for its smallness I felt obliged to repress. For that matter, that is the nature of resentment, the objection we cannot express. It is silence more than the complaint itself that makes the emotion so toxic, like poisons the body won't pee away.

I'm a raw vegan, and I perceive pharmaceuticals to be poison.

The smell of things burning that aren't meant to burn wafts across the city: shoe polish, rat poison, toothpaste, piano strings, hernia trusses, baby cribs, Indian clubs. And hair and skin. By this time, hair and skin.

He felt the chill of her secrecy, numbing him, like a poison spreading quickly through his veins.

Thought is the work of the intellect, reverie is its self-indulgence. To substitute day-dreaming for thought is to confuse a poison with a source of nourishment.

Promises are prisons, after all, and the breaking of a promise can poison.

Gossip and anger are like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.

Hatred is the most severely damaging mental condition. It poisons the body, and its effects are virtually irreversible