Catherynne M. Valente Quotes
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The burnt-off connectors and shadows where Ravan once filled my spaces - those, I think, are the sensations of grief.
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The dead know how to savor as the living never can.
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Perhaps all a Tsaritsa is is a beautiful cold girl in the snow, looking down at someone wretched, and not yielding.
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She knew herself, how she had slowly, over years, become a cat, a wolf, a snake, anything but a girl. How she had wrung out her girlhood like death.
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'All little girls are terrible,' he admitted finally. 'but the Marquess, at least, has a very fine hat'
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Everything good in the world has feathers and wings and claws.
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A Sibyl is a door shaped like a girl.
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She sounds like someone who spends a lot of time in libraries, which are the best sorts of people.
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I ate all of my husbands. First I ate their love, then their will, then their despair, and then I made pies of their bodies – and those bodies were so dear to me!
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She is dead. Almost certainly dead. Nearly conclusively dead. She is, at the very least, not answering her telephone.
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You can't trust just any old person who comes along with a hundred puffins and a pretty face!
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And the heart of Ivan Nikolayevich broke inside the body of Marya Morevna, and the pieces of him lodged deep in her bones, and through the window, the stars watched.
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A labyrinth, when it is big enough, is just the world.
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She must protect herself. There would be no one to do it for her. A plan started to prick up its ears inside her, slowly, but getting stronger.
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Temperament, you'll find, is highly dependent on time of day, weather, frequency of naps, and whether one has had enough to eat.
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Children make prayers so thoughtlessly, building them up like sand castles - and they are always surprised when suddenly the castle becomes real, and the iron gate grinds shut.
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Firebirds are such frustating quarry. One minute it's all fiery tail feathers and red talons and the next, nothing but ash and a sore seat.
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Everything looks like magic when you don’t understand it.
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Your past’s a private matter, sweetheart. You just keep it locked up in a box where it can’t hurt anyone.
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It was at thirteen years old that Marya Morevna learned how to keep a secret, and that secrets are jealous things, permitting no fraternization.
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Life outraces memory.
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That's how it goes - as soon as there's anything interesting in Ancient Greece, some arsehole with a magic hat comes along to murder it.
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In his own country, Death can be kind. But of an end
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It is true that novelists are shameless and obey no decent law, and they are not to be trusted on any account, but some Mysteries even they must honor.