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If I'm not a murderer, asked Corny, how come I keep killing people?

Holly Black

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Holly Black
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New Jersey
United States
Murderer
Killing
Asked
Keep
Come
People
Corny

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Every plan is a house of cards.
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She sat in the dew-damp grass and ripped up clumps of it, tossing them in the air and feeling vaguely guilty about it. Some gnome ought to pop out of the tree and scold her for torturing the lawn.
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Flattery will get you everywhere, Sam says, Except, apparently, off a roof.
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Memory is slippery. It bends to our understanding of the world, twists to accommodate our prejudices. It is unreliable. Witnesses seldom remember the same things. They identify the wrong people. They give us the details of events that never happened. Memory is slippery, but my memories suddenly feel slipperier.
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My head is pounding. I wish the mints were aspirin.
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You can break a thing, but you cannot always guide it afterward into the shape you want.
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She knew she shouldn't feel that way about a monster, but right then, she wanted nothing more than a monster of her very own.
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I envy what I fear and hate what I envy.
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I'm a powerful being... a wizard, Corny said. So don't try anything. Yes, said the little faery, blinking black eyes rapidly. No. Try nothing.
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I survive at the edge of friends circles.
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But if you didn't believe in monsters, then how were you going to be able to keep safe from them?
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I thought of how proud he was when he took the marks- cutting the skin of his throat in a long slash and then packing it with ashes until keloid scars rose up. He called it his second smile.
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You okay? Anton asks, looking at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only miserable one.
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The first boy I fell in love with didn't know I loved him, but he managed to break my heart anyway.
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Everyone danced -- sweaty bodies packed tight, drunk with sound.
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I’m Lila, and yes, he’s crazy. But you must have noticed that before now. He was crazy back when I knew him, and he’s obviously gotten crazier over time.
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Farewell, Father, she said. He fell back upon his chair, choking. She laughed, not with mirth or even mockery, but something that was closer to a sob. You crafted me so sharp, I cut even myself.
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Everything was strange and beautiful and swollen with possibilities.
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I consider kissing her right there on the dirty couch, but self-preservation stops me. Once someone hurts you, it’s harder to relax around them, harder to think of them as safe to love. But it doesn’t stop you wanting them. Sometimes I actually think it makes the wanting worse
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