Wither followed illness, and Winter stole her

We tore down all the maps, spreading them across every surface. We ran our fingers over the lines, trying in vain to see the absences.

But now it is peaceful here, roaming and listening.

What is at stake today is not only the conception of what literature should be, but the relevance of literature itself.

I am afraid--so very afraid--that I will never be able to forget Camelot again.

Myths are not untruths. They’re ways to see the truths that remain hidden from our ordinary method of looking at the world.

She floats in rosewater playing il m’aime, il ne m’aime pas, remembers men

and how it felt when they watched her dance

From the depths of my core to the moons in my sky, I am dead—let me stay like that.

It dawns on you that Sara has planned this from the beginning.

everything sounds like the agony birthed by too much blood

The world is ultimately not made of logical precepts, nor is it only made of numbers and statistics.

You broke the rules, Sir. Hesitation is not for men like us—no matter what we feel.

The value of the most poignant or thoughtful books doesn’t decay as they’re re-read. They constantly surprise us.

People called him a wizard

but that is not how he saw himself.

I tell myself I am not a monster.

It shocks us from our complacency and forces us to reckon with murky ambiguity that refuses to fit into our existing worldviews.

It would be so nice to return to a simple, gentle life, but she couldn’t forget the Cold or the Loneliness. Or perhaps she could.

I make another batch of blessed buttercream, wishing to wash away my guilt since I know you’d be angry with me, but I hope if you open your sack for lunch, there will be something delightful.

he lives among the stars, a charioteer of constellations.

A poet must be able to dive into that star-dappled puddle and earnestly believe, if only for a manic instant, that they can taste the light.