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We always find it difficult to forgive our heroes for being human.

Frances Hardinge

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Frances Hardinge
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 6
Author
Writer
Kent
England
Frances Melanie Hardinge
Hon. Frances Melanie Hardinge
Forgive
Forgiving
Hero
Difficult
Find
Human
Humans
Always
Heroes

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If you want someone to tell you what to think... You will never be short of people willing to do so.
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Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.
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I'm never telling the truth again! It gets you hanged and locked out and starved and froze and hated . . .
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It was all very well being told that she could do nothing to make things better. Neverfell did not have the kind of mind that could take that quietly. She did not have the kind of mind that could be quiet at all.
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You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent
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I am anything I wish to be. The world cannot choose for me. No, it is for me to choose what the world shall be.
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Ordinary life did not stop just because kings rose and fell, Mosca realized. People adapted. If the world turned upside down, everyone ran and hid in their houses, but a very short while later, if all seemed quiet, they came out again and started selling each other potatoes.
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In Mosca’s experience, a ‘long story’ was always a short story someone did not want to tell.
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True stories seldom have endings. I don't want a happy ending, I want more story.
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Brand a man as a thief and no one will ever hire him for honest labor - he will be a hardened robber within weeks. The brand does not reveal a person's nature, it shapes it.
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Words were dangerous when loosed. They were more powerful than cannon and more unpredictable than storms. They could turn men’s heads inside out and warp their destinies. They could pick up kingdoms and shake them until they rattled.
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I want my chirfugging goose back!
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Sometimes fear made you angry. Perhaps after years anger cooled, like a sword taken from a forge. Perhaps in the end you were left with something very cold and very sharp.
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My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.
Frances Hardinge
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You’re a peach full of poison, you know that? Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.
Frances Hardinge
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Every time I do what you say I tumble a bit farther down this well of darkness, an' this here is a drop too deep an' too dark for me. I have to stop falling while I can still see a bit of the sky.
Frances Hardinge
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It was hopeless. She was flawless. She was a sunbeam. Mosca gave up and got on with hating her.
Frances Hardinge
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If wits were pins, the man would be a veritable hedgehog.
Frances Hardinge
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My good lady,’ interrupted Clent, ‘are you telling me that he is not the Luck? That you have in some way obfuscated the chronology of his nativity?’ Seconds passed. A beetle flew into Mistress Leap’s hair while she stared at Clent, then it struggled free and flew off again. ‘Did you lie about when he was born?’ translated Mosca.
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Desperation is a millstone. It wears away at the very soul, grinding away pity, kindness, humanity and courage. But sometimes it whets the mind to a sharpened point and creates moments of true brilliance. And standing there, nose tickled by the dusty hide of the stuffed deer head, such a moment visited Mosca Mye.
Frances Hardinge