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You are my courage, as I am your conscience, he whispered. You are my heart---and I your compassion. We are neither of us whole, alone. Do ye not know that, Sassenach?

Diana Gabaldon

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Diana Gabaldon
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: January 11
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Williams
Arizona
Diana J. Gabaldon Perez
Compassion
Courage
Alone
Whole
Heart
Sassenach
Whispered
Conscience
Neither

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If it was a sin for you to choose me . . . then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it.
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For so many years, for so long, I have been so many things, so many different men. But here, he said, so softly I could barely hear him, here in the dark, with you… I have no name.
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I'll scream! Likely. If not before, certainly during. I expect they'll hear ye at the next farm you've got good lungs.
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Not for the first time, I reflected that intimacy and romance are not synonymous.
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While the Lord might insist that vengeance was His, no male Highlander of my acquaintance had ever thought it right that the Lord should be left to handle such things without assistance.
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Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I said, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled me close again. “I said I was a virgin, not a monk,” he said, kissing me again. “If I find I need guidance, I’ll ask.
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Hodie mihi cras tibi, said the inscription. Sic transit gloria mundi. My turn today, yours tomorrow. And thus passes away the glory of the world.
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Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and God! I loved her well.
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Your face is my heart
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For I had come back, and I dreamed once more in the cool air of the Highlands. And the voice of my dream still echoed through ears and heart, repeated with the sound of Brianna's sleeping breath. You are mine, it had said. Mine. And I will not let you go.
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I'll leave it to you, Sassenach, he said dryly, to imagine what it feels like to arrive unexpectedly in the midst of a brothel, in possession of a verra large sausage.
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I wouldna cross the road to see a scrawny woman if she was stark naked and dripping wet. ~Jamie Fraser
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There aren't any answers, only choices
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If she was broken, she would slash him with her jagged edges, reckless as a drunkard with a shattered bottle.
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Character, I think, is the single most important thing in fiction. You might read a book once for its interesting plot—but not twice.
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Why, what's the matter wi' the poor child? she demanded of Jamie. Has she had an accident o' some sort? No, it's only she's married me, he said, though if ye care to call it an accident, ye may.
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He shook his head, absorbed in one of his feats of memory, those brief periods of scholastic rapture where he lost touch with the world around him, absorbed completely in conjuring up knowledge from all its sources.
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Everyone can lie, young Roger, given cause enough. Even me. It's only that it's harder for those of us who live in glass faces we have to think up our lies ahead of time.
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He touched the rough crucifix that lay against his chest and whispered to the moving air, Lord, that she might be safe, she and my children. Then turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her throught the veils of time.
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Gentle he would be, denied he would not.
Diana Gabaldon