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I perceive that you have a cruel heart, my child. It lies within your breast like a smoldering blade, hissing steam at me.

Catherynne M. Valente

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Catherynne M. Valente
Age: 45
Born: 1979
Born: May 5
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Cat Valente
Children
Breast
Heart
Cruel
Like
Breasts
Perceive
Smoldering
Lies
Hissing
Child
Blade
Within
Blades
Lying
Steam

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Tell it fast before you get scared and silence yourself. You'll never wish you'd held back a little more.
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...her cry is a hook and it catches me in the throat.
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Love, I've never been anyone's mother I don't know how to talk to young or old. But don't stop smiling just because I flap my mouth and say something that's not dressed around the edges like a lace tablecloth. Thicken up and we'll get along fine.
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Metamorphosis is the most profound of all acts.
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That’s what a map is, you know. Just a memory.
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Death hath no dominion.
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I looked at this man and thought: Oh, how we are going to hurt each other.
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... but as has been said, September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.
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Every morning is a battle between the superego and the id, and I am a mere foot soldier with mud and a snooze button on her shield.
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But lost children always find each other, in the dark, in the cold. It is as though they are magnetized, and can only attract their like.
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We like the wrong sorts of girls, they wrote. They are usually the ones worth writing about.
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Men die. It's practically what they're for.
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Someone ought to write a novel about me.
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This is what comes of having a heart, even a very small and young one. It causes no end of trouble, and that’s the truth.
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All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.
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When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean it IS brighter and lovelier it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.
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Koschei, Koschei,” she whispered. “What would I have been if I had never seen the birds? I am no one I am nothing. I am a blank paper on which you and your magic wrote a girl. Just the kind of girl you wanted, all hungry and hurt and needing. A machine for loving you. Nothing in me was not made by you.
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Your past's a private matter, sweetheart. You just keep it locked up in xbox where it can't hurt anyone.
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...For grace may only be found briefly, and always in the midst of madness.
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You cannot escape where you come from, September. Some part of it remains inside you always, like the slender white heart in the center of the thickest onion.
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