Quotes About Identity

I am a whore, she said. And in addition to that, I am not a nice woman. But despite these facts, my word is gold.

You are different. She lifted a hand to delicately trace his hairline. He closed his eyes, feeling her fingers tremble against his skin. For whatever reason, she said softly, when you are with me, you are simply Isaac and I am Coral.

It hardly mattered. She was tired of waiting for him to acknowledge who he was. Tired of donning a false mask of gaiety when she was so much more—felt so much more—beneath. No one had ever noticed her mask. No one but him. If he couldn't or wouldn't make the first move, then damn it, she would.

To fight demons, one must assume the guise of a demon

What of the Parliament? Or the succession of the marquessate? Don't you see? He shook his head, searching for the words, he who was known for his eloquence on the floor of the House of Lords. None of that matters. Without you, I am a shadow of a man, a wisp. Parliament, even the marquessate, can survive without me, but I cannot survive without you .

One, he said, ticking points off on his fingers. You are no longer a whore. Two, you wore a mask , you little idiot--no one will recognize you if you don't tell them your past. Three, I love you. Four, you love me. Five--he tapped his thumb against his chin--well, I really don't have a fifth reason, but I should think the first four are sufficient.

Good Lord, His Grace the Ass hiding in the bushes," Apollo muttered. "Whatever are you doing here?" "Ah, Kilbourne, you've regained your voice," Wakefield drawled. "Pity, but I presume my wife is thrilled. And you are?" He looked pointedly at Montgomery.

What are you looking for?" she asked abruptly. "It's rather rude for a gentleman to enter a lady's room without permission." "I'm not a gentleman." "Really? I thought otherwise.

He attacked her throat and she was so startled by the sudden move that she squeaked. He was laving her with his tongue, openmouthed, and she moaned, arching, wondering wildly if this was the same man who wore pink silk coats and black velvet bows. This seemed so base , so animal. Not at all like the effete aristocrat she thought she knew.

If I've never stepped outside the role that's been assigned to me since birth, I've never tested myself. I've been too afraid of others' opinions, I think. I've been a coward. If that woman needs me, why not help her—for her… and for me?

You do have to save my brother," she said, "because if you do not I will tell everyone in England that you are the Ghost of St. Giles.

He had no money or influence here. The clothes on his back were ragged, his moccasins were worn, and he was skeletally thin from lack of food and walking. But he would sail on a ship bound for England even if he had to scrub the decks to pay his way. He was Reynaud St. Aubyn, the Viscount of Hope, and by God or the devil, he was going home.

I'm Joanna but you can call me Jo if you wish. I've always wanted someone to call me Jo. It's sounds so dashing, don't you think?

now she couldn't quite remember the face of the boy whose

In England you learn only to compete with your men in the world and it's not enough to be loved for yourselves because you are women. I shall try to learn of you, but you must try to learn from me, convenido?

I wish I could make a better job of my clothes. My mother taught me about weather and tides, she taught me eight languages and how to make various medicines, but she never thought to teach me to spin and weave and sew, because I was a boy. It seems silly now.

In your country you don't care about history, and in my country we cannot recover from it.

But sometimes a man who is very good thinks, I am very bad, and it—destructs his life, everything. Because he does not believe that he has any right to do something, so he does less and less.

Every waiting season in my life has left its mark on me. I have memories, scars. And honestly? I don't mind the scars anymore. They are part of me now; I wouldn't recognize myself without them.

I am cunning folk, and can be no other.

I recently heard a great writer say that an essential element in the life of a writer is to have been an outsider in childhood, to have been given the gift of not belonging.

Whatever is happening, whatever is changing, whatever is going or not going according to my plans—I release my hold on all of it. I leave behind who I think I am, who I want to be, what I want the world to be. I come home to the great peace of the present moment

When there is nothing left to lose, we find the true self—the self that is whole, the self that is enough, the self that no longer looks to others for definition, or completion, or anything but companionship on the journey.

Your lesson in this lifetime is to find and trust your own precious voice.