Quote

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

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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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To see the years touch ye gives me joy, he whispered, for it means that ye live.
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So remember it, lad. If your head thinks up mischief, your backside's going to pay for it. Brian Fraser to young Jamie
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Your face is my heart Sassenach, and the love of you is my soul
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I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, I heard my heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower's stem.
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What are you doing with the child? I inquired cautiously. I'm teachin' young James here the fine art of not pissing on his feet, he explained.
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Really rather fascinating, you know,' he confided, and I recognized, with an internal sigh, the song of the scholar, as identifying a sound as the terr-whit! of a thrush.
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When you're reading, you're not where you are you're in the book. By the same token, I can write anywhere.
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Torn between the impulse to stroke his head, and the urge to cave it in with a rock, I did neither.
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......what I was born does not matter, only what I will make of myself, only what I will become.
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Then let amourous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell A Thousand and a Hundred score A Hundred and a Thousand more
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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.
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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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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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It was in a way a comforting idea if there was all the time in the world, then the happenings of a given moment became less important.
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The most irritating thing about cliches, I decided, was how frequently they were true.
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It has always been forever, for me, Sassenach
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It would ha' been a good deal easier, if ye'd only been a witch.
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