Quotes About Identity

I had a wild thought there, beneath that sky. I will eat these herbs. Then whatever is truly in me, let it be out, at last. I brought them to my mouth. But my courage failed. What was I truly? In the end, I could not bear to know.

named me Hawk, Circe, for my yellow eyes, and the strange, thin sound of my crying.

Nothing she says has a single meaning, nor a single intention, yet she is steady. She knows herself.

This was a man who moved like the gods were watching: every gesture he made was upright and correct. There was no one else it could be but Hector

What was I truly? In the end, I could not bear to know.

that all my life had been murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it.

You will pardon me if I do not rejoice at being one in a long line of villains.

I did not pretend to be a mortal. I showed my lambent, yellow eyes at every turn. None of it made a difference. I was alone and a woman, that was all that mattered.

Me bastaba un simple roce o el olor para identificarle, y si me quedara ciego, podría reconocerle por el modo en que respiraba o en que pisaba el suelo. Le reconocería en el fin del mundo, incluso en la muerte.

Know yourself is carved above their doors. But I had been a stranger to myself, turned to stone for no reason I could name.

My sister might be twice the goddess I was, but I was twice the witch

There is no one like you," I said, at last. He regarded me a moment, in silence. "So?" Something in the way he spoke it drained the last of my anger from me. I had minded, once. But who was I now, to begrudge such a thing? As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.

he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.

Telemachus the Just," I said. He smiled. "That's what they call you if you're so boring they can't think of something better.

I looked down at my body, bare in the fire's light, and tried to imagine it written over with its history: my palm with its lightning streak, my hand missing its fingers, the thousand cuts from my witch-work, the gristled furrows of my father's fire, the skin of my face like some half-melted taper. And those were only the things that had left marks. […] I was a golden witch, who had no past at all.

I waited for someone to remark on my absence, but no one did, for no one had noticed. Why would they? I was nothing, a stone. One more nymph child among the thousand thousands.

There is no one like you" I said, at last. He regarded me a moment, in silence. "So?

It is likely you are not a witch. But you are something else. Something you have not found yet. And that is why you go P.240

I am made of memories

Would I be skimmed milk or a harpy? A foolish gull or a villainous monster?

Such passive, pale words for what she was.

No wonder I had been so slow, I thought. All this while I had been a weaver without wool, a ship without sea. Yet look where I sail.

Now that I knew who she was, such meekness looked absurd on her, like a great eagle trying to hunch down to fit inside a sparrow's nest.

They will resent you. Worse, they will suspect you, for you are the daughter of a sorcerer and a witch in your own right.