Laini Taylor Quotes
It was as if she had emitted a pulse of radiation that reached him even where he stood, and it bathed him and it burned him.
Thank you to the world for being a wild and inspiring place, full of odd creatures, strange people, and mysterious cities. I hope by and by to know you better.
Love is a luxury.""No. Love is an element."An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on.
It was brave, " countered Issa. "It was rare. It was love, and it was beautiful.
It's not like there's a law against flying.""Yes there is. The law of gravity.
Anyone who takes on my sister, " he had postured once, all puffed-out bravado, "will have to deal with ...my sister." And then he'd dived behind her and cowered.
He'd sooner die trying to hold the world on his shoulders than running away. Better always to run toward. And so he did.
He danced with the sky instead, and the sky dropped him like a rotten plum.
There was only present, and it was infinite. The past and the future were just blinders we wore so that infinity wouldn't drive us mad.
Be a Samurai.Because you just never know what's behind the freaking sky.
Don't look at me like that, " said Ruza."Like what?""Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes.
On the occasions that he did look up from the page, he would seem as though he were awakening from a dream.
He wasn't an alchemist, or a hero. He was a librarian, and a dreamer. He was a reader, and the unsung expert on a long-lost city no one cared a thing about.
It was a different life out here, but make no mistake: Lazlo was every bit the dreamer he had always been, if not more. He might have left his books, but he carried all his stories with him.
Even if it was just walls and a roof with papers inside, it had bewitched him, and drawn him in, and given him everything he needed to become himself.
It was impossible, of course. But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming.
It is bodies that make us real. What is a soul without eyes to look through or hands to hold?
He read while he walked. He read while he ate. The other librarians suspected he somehow read while he slept, or perhaps didn't sleep at all.
What's a horizon?' Lazlo asked, straight-faced. 'Is it like the end of an aisle of books?
He drifted about with his head full of myths, always at least half lost in some otherland of story. Demons and wingsmiths, seraphim and spirits, he love it all.
It was the hate of the used and tormented, who are the children of the used and tormented, and whose own children will be used and tormented.
Life and peace. Victory and vengeance.And never the twain shall meet.
You’re a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable, " she pleaded. "Something beautiful and full of monsters."“Beautiful and full of monsters?"“All the best stories are.
And that's how you go on. You lay laughter over the dark parts. The more dark parts, the more you have to laugh. With defiance, with abandon, with hysteria, any way you can.
Your soul sings to mine. My soul is yours, and it always will be, in any world.
Get out of doors, Strange. Breathe air, see things. A man should have squint lines from looking at the horizon, not just from reading in dim light.
What's the point of being old if you can't beleaguer the young with your vast stores of wisdom?And what's the point of being young if you can't ignore all advice?
I think you're a fairy tale. I think you're magical, and brave, and exquisite. And I hope you'll let me be in your story.
Happiness wasn't a mystical place to be reached or won-some bright terrain beyond the boundary of misery, a paradise waiting for them to find it-but something to carry doggedly through everything.
She may have been the one whose name meant music, but his sounded like it. Saying it made her want to sing it, to lean out a window and call him home. To whisper it in the dark.
He believed in magic, like a child, and in ghosts, like a peasant.
Skathis might have been an artist, but he'd been a vile one. Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.
She had inherited a story that was strewn with corpses and clotted with enmity, and was only trying to stay alive in it.
I’m not looking for fate. I’m seventeen. I’m looking for kissing, and to move forward a few paces on the game board. You know, do some Living. (With my lips.)
..and when he let her go, it was as if she had been filled and didn't realize it until he pulled away and the absence rushed back in.
There is the past, and there is the future. The present is never more than the single second dividing one from the other. We live poised on that second as it's hurtling forward—toward what?
He didn't believe in magic and demons. He believed in day and night, endurance and fury, cold mud and loneliness and the speed with which blood leaves the body
I don’t believe in prayer, but I do believe in magic, and I want to believe in miracles.
To be one of a pair of bodies that knew that melting fusion. To reach and find. To be and reached for and found. To belong to a mutual certainty. To wake up holding hands.
What was he? Storyteller and secretary and doer of odd jobs, neither Tizerkane nor delegate, just someone along for the dream.
Again his memory failed to conjure her face. It was like trying to call up a melody while another song played.