Vielleicht war er ja noch da, irgendwo hinter ihren geschlossenen Lidern, vielleicht klebte ja noch etwas Glueck an ihren Wimpern, wie Goldstaub. Liessen Traeume in den Maerchen nicht manchmal so ertwas zurueck?
What was she hoping to gain from his death? That it would numb the pain of his betrayal, or heal her injured pride? Her red sister didn’t know much about love.
– Voglio dire che io fiuto le belle storie a chilometri di distanza. Quindi non tenti di nascondermene una. Sputi fuori, forza, e in cambio si guadagna una fetta di questo fantastico dolce con i buchi – soggiunse in tono scherzoso.
What are stories for if we don’t learn from them?
Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.
The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It’s easy to forget that when you’re indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
If you keep pretending you’re in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you’re in.
How ridiculous that water ran out of your eyes when your heart hurt. Tragic heroines in books tended to be amazingly beautiful. Not a word about swollen eyes or a red nose. “Crying always gives me a red nose,” thought Elinor. “I expect that’s why I’ll never be in any book.
Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.
There was another reason [she] took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powerful friends — daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had traveled far and wide. Her books cheered her up when she was sad and kept her from being bored.