Jennifer Donnelly Quotes
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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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There was a basket at her feet. She reached into it and lifted out the head of a young woman, a marquise. She wore Bourbon white to her death, but wears the tricolor now - white cheeks, blue lips, red dripping from her neck. Long live the revolution.
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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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Funny, 'ow you can 'old a jewel in your 'and, and toss it away, and not even know what you 'ad until it's gone.
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Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window. He waits for me, too. And I—I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone—I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.
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Becuse God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.
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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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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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Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.
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I just love historical fiction.
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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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For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
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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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But words are more powerful than anything.
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Only the hopeless love God.
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Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard.
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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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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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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.
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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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My father had put these things on the table. I looked at him standing by the sink. He was washing his hands, splashing water on his face. My mamma left us. My brother, too. And now my feckless, reckless uncle had as well. My pa stayed, though. My pa always stayed. I looked at him. And saw the sweat stains on his shirt. And his big, scarred hands. And his dirty, weary face. I remembered how, lying in my bed a few nights before, I had looked forward to showing him my uncle's money. To telling him I was leaving. And I was so ashamed.
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On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.
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Her grey eyes sparkled with passion as she spoke. Sid looked into them and for a second he glimpsed her soul. He saw what she was - fierce and brave. Upright. Impatient. And good. So good that she would sit covered in gore, shout at dangerous men, and keep a long, lonely vigil - all to save the likes of him. He realized she was a rare creature, as rare as a rose in winter.