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I'm afraid that whatever I touch is spoilt by the contact. I'm not scared of being spoiled, Val said.

Holly Black

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Holly Black
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New Jersey
United States
Spoilt
Spoiled
Contact
Scared
Touch
Afraid
Whatever

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Poisonous jealousy thrummed through my veins.
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Sam: You know what I wish? Cassel: What? Sam: That someone would covert my bed into a robot that would fight other bed robots to the death for me.
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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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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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She’s an old lady,” Barron says. “And she’s been locked up for years. Let her have some fun. She needs to blow off steam. Seduce old dudes. Lose money at canasta.
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It is my belief that books are living things.
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You in trouble?” Sam asks. The way he says it, I wonder if he’s thinking about how to get out of here if I am.
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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.
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This is never going to be over,” I shout. “Someone will always be after me. There’s always consequences. Well, BRING IT. I am done with being afraid, and I am done with you.
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I drive him to school, then I break back into Barron's house. I'm the best kind of thief, the kind that leaves behind items equal in value to those he's stolen. Then I go home and shave until my skin is as slick as any slickster's.
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Don't be drinking the Haterade.
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It’s just that you go so crazy being alone like that. Sometimes he’d forget my water or food and I’d cry and cry and cry.” She stops talking and looks out the window. “I would try to tell myself stories to pass the time. Fairy tales. Parts of books. But they got used up.
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Jones looks like he wants to slug me, which is only subtly different from his usual way of looking at me like I'm a slug.
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I'm sorry I kissed you- it was selfish and it upset you- but you can't ask me to pretend I didnt want to.
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My head is pounding. I wish the mints were aspirin.
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I'm not good at having friends. I mean, I can make myself useful to people. I can fit in. I get invited to parties and I can sit at any table I want in the cafeteria. But actually trusting someone when they have nothing to gain from me just doesn't make sense. All friendships are negotiations of power.
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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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Marks forget that whenever something's too good to be true, that's because it's a con.
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Philip Sharpe was a soldier in God's army, says the minister. Now he marches with the angels.
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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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