Quotes About Fate

Claire," he said quietly. "Tomorrow I will die. This child Ã¢â'¬Â¦ is all that will be left of me—ever. I ask ye, Claire—I beg you—see it safe." I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, I heard my heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower's stem.

It's not too late, you know," she said. She smiled, teasing a little tremulously. "You could still back out." "It's been too late for me since the day I saw you," he said gruffly.

To take responsibility for the welfare of others made me feel less victimized by the whims of whatever impossible fate had brought me here

It's my fault, I said softly. I touched his face, the thick brows, wide mouth, and the sprouting stubble along the clean,long jaw. Mine. If I hadn't come...and told you what would happen... I felt a true sorrow for his corruption, and shared a sense of loss for the naïve, gallant lad he had been. And yet...what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were? I had had to tell him, and he had had to act on it.

Everyone makes choices, and no one knows what may be the end of any of them. If my own was to blame for many things, it was not to blame for everything. Nor was harm all that had come of it.

two Protestants, amazingly bound to Catholics and bemused at the strange tides of fate that had washed over them; two men left alone by the misfortunes of life, and now surprised to find themselves the heads of households, holding the lives of strangers in their hands.

Well, my mother told me I'd be some lassie's choice one fine day." He reached down a hand and helped me up. "I told her," he continued, "that I thought it was the man's part to choose." "And what did she say to that?" I asked. "She rolled her eyes and said 'You'll find out, my fine wee cockerel, you'll find out.' " He laughed. "And so I have.

Might he ever see Jamie Fraser again? There was a good chance he would not. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might. The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His quill had dried; he did not dip it again. I love you, he wrote, the strokes light and fast, making scarcely a mark upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were not so. Then he rose, scooped up the scribbled papers, and, crushing them into a ball, threw them into the fire.

Call it fate," Claire had said, looking at him with a hawk's eye, the one that sees from far above, so far above, maybe, that what seems mercilessness is truly compassion. "Or call it bad luck. But it wasn't your fault. Or hers.

I knew an old lady in the Highlands once, who said the lines in your hand don't predict your life; they reflect it.

Why, the lines of your palm show what ye are, dear. That's why they change—or should. They don't, in some people; those unlucky enough never to change in themselves, but there are few like that.

I was born for you, I simply said, and held out my arms to him.

When I asked my Da how ye knew which was the right women, he told me when the time came, I'd have no doubt. And I didn't. When I woke in the dark under that fruit tree on the road to Leoch with you sitting on my chest, cursing me for bleeding to death, I said to myself, Jamie Fraser, for all ye canna see what she looks like, and for all she weighs as much as a good draft horse, this is the woman.

we've had some luck, both good and bad.

Are some people destined for a great fate, or to do great things? Or is it only that they're born somehow with that great passion—and if they find themselves in the right circumstances, then things happen? It's the sort of thing you wonder, studying history Ã¢â'¬Â¦ 

the good man's only singularity lies in his approving welcome to every experience the looms of fate may weave for him

Et papa ? - Et papa quoi ? - Fait-il partie de ceux qui ont toujours su ) quoi ils étaient destinés ? Les mains de Claire s'arrêtèrent un instant. - Oh ! oui, il sait. - Quoi ? Un laird, un chef ? Sa mère hésita, réfléchissant. - Non, répondit-elle enfin. Elle prit le pilon et se mit à écraser la marjolaine. Son parfum s'éleva dans la pièce comme de l'encens. - Un homme. Ce qui n'est pas rien.

Of course, had she gone, he would have died, he reflected. And never come to this place and got his land, nor seen his daughter, nor held his grandson in his arms. Come to think, perhaps being nearly killed wasn't always a misfortune—so long as you didn't actually die of it

that every human soul had a destiny and had a duty to find and fulfill it.

To know that you cannot give them happiness, not through any fault of yours or theirs, but only because you were not born the right person for them?

What Charles did to the people of Scotland—was that the 'thing' that had to happen? Or was it 'meant' to happen as it did, and Charles's real purpose was to be what he is now—a figurehead, an icon? Without him, would Scotland have endured two hundred years of union with England, and still—still"—she waved a hand at the sprawling letters overhead—"have kept its own identity?

I suppose I am asking whether you believe in fate," Lord John went on. The ghost of a smile wavered on his face. "You, of all people, would seem best suited to say.

No great difference at all, perhaps. Was my future any more certain than hers? And did I not depend for my life upon a man bound to me—at least in part—by desire of my body? A

That's right," she said softly, watching. "It's not everyone can go through the stones, is it? Why us?