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People assume that science is a very cold sort of profession, whereas writing novels is a warm and fuzzy intuitive thing. But in fact, they are not at all different.

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
Science
Assume
Facts
Assuming
Different
Profession
Writing
Warm
Thing
Novel
Fuzzy
People
Cold
Intuitive
Sort
Novels
Fact
Whereas

More quotes by 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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......what I was born does not matter, only what I will make of myself, only what I will become.
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It has always been forever, for me, Sassenach
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We have nothing now between us, save - respect, perhaps. And I think that respect has maybe room for secrets, but not for lies.
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It wasn't a thing I had consciously missed, but having it now reminded me of the joy of it that drowsy intimacy in which a man's body is accessible to you as your own, the strange shapes and textures of it like a sudden extension of your own limbs.
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Your face is my heart Sassenach, and the love of you is my soul
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Time does not really exist for mothers, with regard to their children. It does not matter greatly how old the child is-in the blink of an eye, a mother can see the child again as they were when they were born, when they learned how to walk, as they were at any age-at any time, even when the child is fully grown or a parent themselves.
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I was born for you -Claire Fraser, Outlander
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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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That's what marriage is good for it makes a sacrament out of things ye'd otherwise have to confess. Jamie Fraser
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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.
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It's only that ye looked so beautiful, wi' the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.
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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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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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We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you.
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There were moments, of course. Those small spaces in time, too soon gone, when everything seems to stand still, and existence is balanced on a perfect point, like the moment of change between the dark and the light, and when both and neither surround you.
Diana Gabaldon
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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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Oh, womanly sympathy, love AND food? I said, laughing. Don't want a lot, do you?
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Your face is my heart
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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.
Diana Gabaldon