Ellen Kushner Quotes
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Let the fairy tale begin on a winter's morning, then, with one drop of blood newly-fallen on the ivory snow: a drop as bright as a clear-cut ruby, red as a single spot of claret on the lace cuff.
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In a city where most of the wealth is controlled by a small few, certain things are overlooked, particularly when it comes to the assertion of privilege.
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I could make it not matter.
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The time of testing, and of playing, was over. This was the final duel for one of them. Now they were fighting for their lives--for the one life that would emerge from this elegant battle. . . . For the moment the two of them were evenly matched, arm against arm. Michael prayed that it would never stop, that there would always be this moment of utter mastery, beautiful and rare, and no conclusion ever be reached.
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Across the troubled maelstrom of time, people always need a beer.
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Richard knew he was fighting for his life, and he was terribly happy.
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Utterly ingenious! Tiffany Trent has more fine invention at her fingertips than a roomful of magical Leonardos!
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But I saw the pair of them, along with everyone else. Hard to miss. Him towering like a raggedy scarecrow in that flapping black scholar's gown, and the sword always quiet next to him, sweet as honey, and poison with it.
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In the sleepless dark, all things are possible, the worst most likely, all darkness visible. There he lay, as near as comfort, as far as the other side of death, silent and far away in sleep.
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Theron had in fact written to Sophia, but his sister had not sent the letter. She did not think it would reassure his mother to be invited to witness the ceremony of his union with his wizard and lover, on the steps of the Great Hall, at the Festival of the Spring Sowing.
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I studied you until I knew you, or at least, the public parts of you: your learning, your passion, the way your voice slows down when you answer a question. I studied your hands, and wondered how they'd touch me; your hair, and how it would smell. I wondered about that and about the rest of you I could not see. I wanted to know you. And I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to see me.
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Holly Black is the Real Thing: a gifted writer with a solid grounding in what matters. Her stories are dark and splendid blooms rising from roots sunk deep in myth and tradition.
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A great stag woven of rushes and fluttering with green ribbons was borne through the streets to the music of pipe and tabor. Crowds of women surrounded it, leaping and grabbing at the ribbons.
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A masterwork. A particularly American magic realism that touches the heart of race and childhood in our country; it's 100 Years of Solitude for an entire generation of American Baby Boomers, and deserves the widest possible audience.
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I'm the Duke of Riverside. I build things here and pretty much keep the peace, and discourage certain behaviors. If you think all that has been achieved through entirely civil and lawful means, you've had your head in a bucket.
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There's the road to heaven, and there's the road to hell, and there? That's the road to Faerie.
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Current cant equates fantasy with escapism, and current fashion would have it that fantasy is both easy to read and to write. It isn't. When it is done honestly, by a skillful writer, fantasy takes us far enough beyond our daily perceptions to open us to the essential realities beneath it. This is the true goal of all art.
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Maybe someone would write a play just for me, one where a real woman could fight with her sword, and had many fine adventures and changes of costume.
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I wonder if you men have any idea of how insulting it is to women when you assume that all we can offer is our bodies?
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Every man lives at swordspoint.
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Not being the sort to throw a book, she pounded her fist on her cushion.
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And Ferris had watched Alec go past him out of the door noted the bones...but he never would have connected that ragged man with the honey-and-acid creature who'd insulted him at Diane's house.
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He had no reason to want to avenge Horn, and for Applethorpe no vengeance would ever be enough. It was natural for him to want to hurt the man who had been the instrument of his first adult grief; natural, but not right.
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MIDWINTER IS THE DREARIEST of the year. Days are short, nights are long, and both are cold and wet with no immediate prospect of relief. Winter’s Tail is what the old wives call it, dragging filth at winter’s ass.