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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.

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
Death
Wildness
Become
Snake
Anything
Wolf
Years
Snakes
Like
Slowly
Cat
Knew
Girlhood
Girl
Wrung

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Temptation likes best those who think they have a natural immunity, for it may laugh all the harder when they succumb.
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Death hath no dominion.
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That’s what a map is, you know. Just a memory.
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Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.
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You look like a winter night, he had told her when he had given it to her. I could sleep inside the cold of you.
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...For grace may only be found briefly, and always in the midst of madness.
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Yes, yes, mistress, I shall go and accomplish your task. Only—I was not only sent to kill the Leucrotta. There is a maiden in a tower— At this the Witch spat, again rolling her marvelous eyes. Those revolting creatures are always getting themselves locked up. If only they would stay that way.
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Just tell yourself a story that'll satisfy you and pretend he told it.
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The future is a messy, motley business, little girl.
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I am the Walker and the Maze.
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That’s what happens to friends, eventually. They leave you. It’s practically what they’re for.
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That's Venus, September thought. She was the goddess of love. It's nice that love comes on first thing in the evening, and goes out last in the morning. Love keeps the light on all night.
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You and I, being grown-up and having lost our hearts at least twice or thrice along the way, might shut our eyes and cry out: Not that way, child! But as we have said, September was Somewhat Heartless, and felt herself reasonably safe on that road. Children always do.
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Funny how question contains the word quest inside it, as though any small question asked is a journey through briars.
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Just remember that the only question in a house is who is to rule. The rest is only dancing around that, trying not to look it in the eye.
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A book is a door, you know. Always and forever. A book is a door into another place and another heart and another world.
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We all just keep moving, September. We keep moving until we stop.
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War is not for winning, Masha, sighed Koschei, reading the tracks of supply lines, of pincer strategies, over her shoulder. It is for surviving.
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I wonder sometimes what the memory of God looks like. Is it a palace of infinite rooms, a chest of many jeweled objects, a long, lonely landscape where each tree recalls an eon, each pebble the life of a man? Where do I live, in the memory of God?
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The smell of loving is a difficult one to describe, but if you think of the times when someone has held you close and made you safe, you will remember how it smells just as well as I do.
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