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It's starting to sink in, Corny said. I can almost look at you without wanting to bang my head against the wall.

Holly Black

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Holly Black
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New Jersey
United States
Look
Bangs
Without
Corny
Looks
Sink
Wanting
Starting
Wall
Head
Almost
Bang

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We are, largely, who we remember ourselves to be. That's why habits are so hard to break. If we know ourselves to be liars, we expect not to tell the truth. If we think of ourselves as honest, we try harder.
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My head is pounding. I wish the mints were aspirin.
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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 got bored, he says. Besides, you know what's creepier than walking around your dead brothers' apartment? Sitting alone in a hearse in front of his apartment.
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Death has his favorites, like anyone. Those who are beloved of Death will not die.
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He must have been handsome when he was alive and was handsome still, although made monstrous by his pallor and her awareness of what he was. His mouth looked soft, his cheekbones as sharp as blades, and his jaw curved, giving him an off-kilter beauty. His black hair a mad forest of dirty curls.
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She didn't know how much she'd been hoping that he still loved her, until she felt how much it hurt to realize he didn't.
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Marks forget that whenever something's too good to be true, that's because it's a con.
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You have to write a lot. And you have to rewrite what you wrote a lot more.
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It's not that I don't know that it's a bad idea. It's that, lately, bad ideas have a particular hold over me.
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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 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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He’s quiet then. We lie next to each other, twin corpses waiting for burial.
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Love changes us, but we change how we love too.
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Pet the cat dude, says Sam. She brought you a present. She wants you to tell her how badass she is. You are a tiny tiny killing machine. Daneca coos. What's she doing? I ask. Purring! says Daneca. She sounds delighted. Good kitty. Who's an amazing killing machine? That's right. You are! You are a brutal brutal tiny lion! Yes, y
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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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You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.” “Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.
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No trouble ever got fixed late at night, he said. Midnight is for regrets.
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