Quote

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.

Erin Morgenstern

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Erin Morgenstern
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: July 8
Novelist
Writer
Others
Fantasy
Instructor
Stories
Inspired
Archaic
Book
Created
Instructors
Pieces
Fantasies
Learned
Spine
Bits
Myths
Books
Tells
Crackling
Read
Myth
Spines

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I saw in details while she saw in scope. Not seeing the scope is why I am here and she is not. I took each element spearately and never looked to see that they never did fit together properly
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Secrets have power, and that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them.
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I am already married, she remarks to the empty air, twisting the ring on her right hand that covers an sold, distinctive scar.
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You don't have to be a chef or even a particularly good cook to experience proper kitchen alchemy: the moment when ingredients combine to form something more delectable than the sum of their parts.
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Are we going to discuss whatever it is you are here to discuss instead of dancing around it?” he asks. “I was never a particularly good dancer.
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Chandresh relishes reactions. Genuine reactions, not mere polite applause. He often values the reactions over the show itself. A show without an audience is nothing, after all. In the response of the audience, that is where the power of performance lives.
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I made a wish on this tree years ago, Marco says. What did you wish for? Bailey asks. Marco leans forward and whispers in Bailey's ear. I wished for her.
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We cannot go backward,' Marco says. 'A great deal is not how it used to be.
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I binge write. I think it's because I started seriously writing by participating in National Novel Writing Month, an online-based challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days.
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Marco knows he does not have the time to push her away, so he pulls her close, burying his face in her hair, his bowler hat torn from his head by the wind....Trust me, Celia whispers in his ear, and he stops fighting it, forgetting everything but her.
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I’ve missed you,” he whispers softly. The air between them is electric as he leans in, gently brushing his lips against her neck. In the next room, the guests complain about the sudden increase in temperature. Fans are drawn from colorful bags, fluttering like tropical birds.
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I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held.
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Have you ever thought about it, about simply leaving? Really, truly thought about it with the intent to follow through and not as a dream or a passing fancy?
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Each of them always gravitating toward the other. Yet still they do not touch.
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Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars.
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He spends the majority of the evening in the company of Celia Bowen, whose elaborate gown changes color, shifting through a rainbow of hues to compliment whoever she is closest to.
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Timing is a sensitive thing.
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And there are really never endings, happy or otherwise.
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I wished for her,” he says.
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Where do you get your ideas? people ask. Sometimes they’re at the bottoms of cups of tea. Sometimes they’re lurking in my shower. Sometimes they’re waiting patiently in glass cases in museums.
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