Jennifer Donnelly Quotes
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Most of the mess that is called history comes about because kings and presidents cannot be satisfied with a nice chicken and a good loaf of bread.
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I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.
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Make them care, Mattie,' she said softly. 'And don't you ever be sorry.' -Emily Wilcox.
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Well, it seems to me that there are books that tell stories, and then there are books that tell truths... The first kind, they show you life like you want it to be. With villains getting what they deserve and the hero seeing what a fool he's been and marrying the heroine and happy endings and all that... But the second kind, they show you life more like it is... The first kind makes you cheerful and contented, but the second kind shakes you up.
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He who cannot endure the bad will not live to see the good.
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History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.
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For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
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They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona's hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing he might do, or say, could. Her grief would run its course, like a fever, and release her when it was spent. He would not shush her or tell her it was God's will and that her da was better off. That was rubbish and they both knew it. When something hurt as bad as this, you had to let it hurt. There were no shortcuts.
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Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.
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I just love historical fiction.
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Becuse God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.
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Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard.
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But words are more powerful than anything.
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There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.
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Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.
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When you can write music that endures, bravo. Until then, keep quiet and study the work of those who can.
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She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.
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Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be.
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It's only the body that's gone. Only the body. There's a part that doesn't go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.
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I need a boy who thinks with his big head, not his little one. Since they do not exist, I have fashioned my own.
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You are a ghost, Andi," she says. "Almost gone." I look at her. I want to say something but I can't get the words out. She squeezes my hands. "Come back to us," she says. And she's gone.
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I was only glad to be saved and never once thought to ask why.
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They leave things behind sometimes, the guests. A bottle of scent. A crumpled handkerchief. A pearl button that fell off a dress and rolled under a bed. And sometimes they leave other sorts of things. Things you can't see. A sigh trapped in a corner. Memories tangled in the curtains. A sob fluttering against the windowpane like a bird that flew in and can't get back out. I can feel these things. They dart and crouch and whisper.
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I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.