I was burning through books every day - stories about people and places I'd never heard of. They were perhaps the only thing that kept me from teetering into utter despair.

And I wondered if love was too weak a word for what he felt, what he’d done for me. For what I felt for him.

So I’m your huntress and thief?” His hands slid down to cup the backs of my knees as he said with a roguish grin, “You are my salvation, Feyre.

Say it, ” I gritted out.“The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.

If you were going to die, I was going to die with you. I couldn't stop thinking it over and over as you screamed, as I tried to kill her: you were my mate my mate my mate.

It had filled my time - given me quiet, steadfast company with those characters, who did not exist and never would, but somehow made me feel less ... alone.

And then things would be fine. Then I'd be fine.

Females and males watched Rhysand throughout the hall—and the shadowsinger and I made a game of betting on who, exactly, would work up the nerve to invite the High Lord home.

I’m thinking it would be very easy to love you. And easier to call you my friend.

The Court of Dreams. The people who knew that there was a price, and one worth paying, for that dream.

You do what you love, what you need.

Information is not knowledge, and knowledge is not wisdom. Reading - even browsing - an old book can yield sustenance denied by a database search. Patience is a virtue, gluttony a sin.

The individual appears for an instant, joins the community of thought, modifies it and dies; but the species, that dies not, reaps the fruit of his ephemeral existence.

The audience wants you present, not perfect.

Scotsmen, she had occasion to observe, often did have nice knees. Perhaps that was why they insisted upon kilts.

There is a golden thread which runs through British history of the individual, standing firm against tyranny and then of the individual participating in his society

I'm f**king pathetic when it comes to being an entertainer. People come because they want to see me have a nervous breakdown.

He, who loves the bristle of bayonets, only sees in their glitter what beforehand he feels in his hand.

Throughout high school, I was obsessed with magazines. I used to just comb through them and plaster things on my wall.

In the nineteenth century, slavery was the greatest wrong, and government never stood so tall as when it was redressing that wrong.

I try to preface everything with "this isn't new." Because most social movements have happened before and I get that. Nothing I'm doing is new.