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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.

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
Thinking
Everyone
Glasses
Given
Ahead
Young
Harder
Live
Lies
Enough
Cause
Even
Causes
Time
Lying
Roger
Think
Faces
Glass

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We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you.
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And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.
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Could I but lay my head in your lap, lass. Feel your hand on me, and sleep wi' the scent of you in my bed. Christ, Sassenach. I need ye.
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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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Only you, he said, so softly I could barely hear him. To worship ye with my body, give ye all the service of my hands. To give ye my name, and all my heart and soul with it. Only you. Because ye will not let me lie--and yet ye love me.
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Your face is my heart Sassenach, and the love of you is my soul
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But we are here, all of us. And we're here because I love you, more than the life that was mine. Because I believed you loved me the same way...will you tell me that's not true? No, he said after a moment, so softly I could barely hear him. His hand tightened harder on mine. No, I willna tell ye that. Not ever, Claire.
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You could tell from the books whether a library was meant for show or not. Books that were used had an open, interested feel to them, even if closed and neatly lined up on a shelf in strict order with their fellows. You felt as though the book took as much interest in you as you did in it and was willing to help when you reached for it.
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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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Sassenach. He had called me that from the first the Gaelic word for outlander, a stranger. An Englishman. First in jest, then in affection.
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No wonder he was so good with horses, I thought blearily, feeling his fingers rubbing gently behind my ears, listening to the soothing, incomprehensible speech. If I were a horse, I’d let him ride me anywhere.
Diana Gabaldon
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Oh, womanly sympathy, love AND food? I said, laughing. Don't want a lot, do you?
Diana Gabaldon
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Am I a man? To want you so badly that nothing else matters? To see you, and know I would sacrifice honor or family or life itself to lie wi' you, even though ye'd left me?
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......what I was born does not matter, only what I will make of myself, only what I will become.
Diana Gabaldon
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As usual, the note occupied less than a page and included neither salutation nor closing, Uncle Hal's opinion being that since the letter had a direction upon it, the intended recipient was obvious, the seal indicated plainly who had written it, and he did not waste his time in writing to fools.
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Mo Nighean donn, he whispered, mo chridhe. My brown lass, my heart. Come to me. Cover me. Shelter me. a bhean, heal me. Burn with me, as I burn for you.
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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?
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She sounded as though love were an unfortunate but unavoidable condition.
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With that height, plus a face of an ugliness so transcendant as to be grotesquely beautiful, it was obvious why she had embraced a religious life--Christ was the only man from whom she might expect embrace in return.
Diana Gabaldon
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The most irritating thing about cliches, I decided, was how frequently they were true.
Diana Gabaldon