Quotes About Reflection

A new Tammy, the tentative beginnings of a new life. But there were still a few threads from the old that needed to be dealt with.

The lake sometimes has a mind of its own; there's no telling how it might treat you.

It shines and it gleams, but is not what it seems.

My face is my most useful tool. I made it smile.

I looked at my hands, turned them over in the tarnished shine of streetlights seeping through a crack in the curtains. They were long; strong and competent with nicely shaped nails; hard enough for a palm strike, soft enough to trace gentle arabesques on a taut trembling stomach or along a soft inner thigh. The stains did not show.

How had she managed to get inside me, slip between my ribs and rest against my heart without me feeling it?

The air in her lungs evaporated in a puff she turned to a laugh, and she sat down. Breathed. Smiled.

She had no idea what path her mother's thoughts might be taking.

A moth fluttered over the reflection of the moon in the water. She spoke quietly in the still, scented air.

Hild looked down at the water, at herself, a woman. A woman who knows. Standing like a queen. Light of the world. Queen of the world.

Hild looked deeper, letting her mind sink into the glimmer and shadow, as she might in the world, looking at the leaves, or lying on her back watching the clouds, letting the thoughts come, letting the things she already knew arrange themselves in a pattern, a story that other might call a prophecy.

Autumn, like grief, changes everything.

The late afternoon sky over the lake this time was grey, but the water laughed and sparkled, reflecting the blue sky and other time and place.

Hild slipped away to sit in the moon shadow of a tufted dune with the sheathed knife in her lap and listen to the night breeze in the grass and think about nothing in particular.

She looked at her big hand, red now. Men's blood. She had killed a man; more than one man. The world looked no different, but she felt different in it, as though it had tilted on its axis and the line of stars had changed.

She swallowed, and her heart filled with light she had known as a child.

His hazel eyes shone with something. Perhaps it was the reflection of new leaves. She hoped so.

How impossibly untangleable is the tangle of what ifs.

The philosopher is not the spokesman of his age, but an angel imprisoned in time.

To live with lucidity a simple, quiet, discreet life among intelligent books, loving a few beings.

Only he lives his life who observes it, thinks it, and says it; the rest let life live them.

Two hundred years ago it was permissible to trust in the future without being totally stupid. But today, who can believe in the current prophecies, since we are yesterday's splendid future?

Reading is an unsurpassable drug, because more than just the mediocrity of our lives, it allows us to escape the mediocrity of our souls.

Sólo las letras antiguas curan la sarna moderna.