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He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.

Gail Carriger

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Gail Carriger
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: May 4
Archaeologist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Bolinas
California
Conversation
Follow
Single
Word
Lasts
Last
Bookish
Night
Clearly
Must
Dinner

More quotes by Gail Carriger

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Alexia had spent long hours wondering over that mustache. Werewolves did not grow hair, as they did not age. Where had it come from? Had he always had it? For how many centuries had his poor abused upper lip labored under the burden of such vegetation?
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You do realise modern social mores exist for a reason? I was hungry, allowances should be made.
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She moved with such purpose it was as though she walked with exclamation marks.
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He...boasted an unassuming mustache, which was perched atop his upper lip cautiously, as though it were slightly embarrassed to be there and would like to slide away and become a sideburn or something more fashionable.
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Rail is such an undignified way to travel. All that rapid racing about. Floating has so much more gravitas.
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A vampire, like a lady, never reveals his true age.
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She reached inside the wide ruffle and pulled out a little vial. “Poison?” asked Lady Maccon, tilting her head to one side. “Certainly not. Something far more important: perfume. We cannot very well have you fighting crime unscented, now, can we?” “Oh.” Alexia nodded gravely. After all, Madame Lefoux was French. “Certainly not.
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Steampunk is...the love child of Hot Topic and a BBC costume drama
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My father, she admitted, was of Italian extraction. Unfortunately, not an affliction that can be cured. She paused. Though he did die.
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And I find perfect beauty excessively boring, don't you?
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Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.
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These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.
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Poetry can cause irreparable harm when misapplied
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I'd rather be loyal than right.
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I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.
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Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She'd let to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced.
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Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.
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I had a recent delivery of new fashion plates from Paris, and you hardly glanced at the hairstyles. My husband tells me you are still having difficulty controlling the change. And your cravat has been tied very simply of late, even for evening events.
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Cats were not, in her experience, an animal with much soul. Prosaic, practical little creatures as a general rule. It would suit her very well to be thought catlike.
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Classic author moment, Oh dear, did I kill that character or not?
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