Quotes About Identity

But i must have a husband, darling. All women must have a husband.

He's a Muslim , you know. Um-Nadia's voice is half-warning and half-laughter. Dark as an Egyptian. Ma! Mirielle shouts. Get a grip. Um-Nadia's grinning like it's one of her old jokes. And here is our beautiful Sirine, whiter than this. She takes a bite out of a whole peeled onion as if it were an apple.

Damaged children are all of the same tribe: I can look at any adult and recognize one instantly— we're everywhere. Lost childhood lingers like tribal scars— in an off-kilter smile or a look in the eye— there's always some sign.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many things, so many different men. But here, he said, so softly I could barely hear him, here in the dark, with you… I have no name.

All I want, is for you to love me. Not because of what I can do or what I look like, or because I love you - just because I am.

Do ye want me? he whispered. Sassenach, will ye take me - and risk the man that I am, for the sake of the man ye knew?

Sassenach. He had called me that from the first; the Gaelic word for outlander, a stranger. An Englishman. First in jest, then in affection.

And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don's wife, or an outlaw's lady? I was born for you, I said simply, and held out my arms to him.

Sassenach," he said against my shoulder, a moment later. "Mm?" "Who in God's name is John Wayne?" "You are," I said. "Go to sleep.

what I was born does not matter, only what I will make of myself, only what I will become.

You invent yourself...You look at other women-or men; you try on their lives for size. You take what you can use, and you look inside yourself for what you can't find elsewhere. And always...always...you wonder if you're doing it right.

I only said I felt like God, Sassenach, he murmured. I never said I was.

He's a man...and that's no small thing to be.

What a mystery blood was -- how did a tiny gesture, a tome of voice, endure through generations like the harder verities of flesh? He had seen it again and again, watching his nieces and nephews grow, and accepted without thought the ehoes of parent and grandparent that appeared for brief moments. the shadow of a face looking back through the years -- that vanished again into the face that was now.

Do ye want me? he whispered. Sassenach, will ye take me--and risk the man that I am, for the sake of the man ye knew? I felt a great wave of relief, mingled with fear. It ran from his hand on my shoulder to the tips of my toes, weakening my joints. It's a lot too late to ask that, I said.... Because I already risked everything I had. But whoever you are now Jamie Fraser--yes. Yes, I do want you.

I am a sassenach, after all," I said, seeing it. He touched my face briefly with a rueful smile. "Aye, mo duinne. But you're my sassenach.

Sorcha," he whispered, and realized that he had called her so a moment before. Now, that was odd; no wonder she had been surprised. It was her name in the Gaelic, but he never called her by it. He liked the strangeness of her, the Englishness. She was his Claire, his Sassenach.

All I want," she said softly to the dark, "is for you to love me. Not because of what I can do or what I look like, or because I love you—just because I am.

Your mother said that Fraser sent her back to me, knowing that I would protect her--and you. ... And like him, perhaps I send you back, knowing---as he knew of me--that he will protect you with his life. I love you forever, Brianna. I know whose child you truly are. With all my love, Dad.

Sassenach," he said against my shoulder, a moment later. "Mm? "Who in God's name is John Wayne?" "You are," I said. "Go to sleep.

He thought of such places in a way that had no words, only recognizing one when he came to it. He might have called it holy, save that the feel of such a place had nothing to do with church or saint. It was simply a place he belonged to be, and that was sufficient.

It was possible to leave things behind—places, people, memories—at least for a time. But places held tight to the things that had happened in them, and to come again to a place you had once lived was to be brought face-to-face with what you had done there and who you had been.

I think it's as though everyone has a small place inside themselves, maybe, a private bit that they keep to themselves. It's like a little fortress, where the most private part of you lives - maybe it's your soul, maybe just that bit makes you yourself and not anyone else. You don't usually show that bit of yourself to anyone, usually, unless sometimes to someone that ye love greatly.

Ye lost your parents young, mo nighean donn, and wandered about the world, rootless. Ye loved Frank"—his mouth compressed for an instant, but I thought he was unconscious of it—"and of course ye love Brianna and Roger Mac and the weans Ã¢â'¬Â¦ but, Sassenach—I am the true home of your heart, and I know that.