Quote

Refills are free,” the waitress tells us with a frown, like she’s hoping we’re not the kind of people who ask for endless refills. I am already pretty sure we are exactly those people.

Holly Black

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Holly Black
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New Jersey
United States
People
Exactly
Already
Pretty
Refills
Asks
Frown
Sure
Waitress
Free
Hoping
Kind
Tells
Like
Endless

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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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Crippled things are always more beautiful. It's the flaw that brings out beauty.
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Love changes us, but we change how we love too.
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Ah coffee. The sweet balm by which we shall accomplish today's tasks.
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Life is like licking Honey from a Thorn
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She wants me to take out Patton.” Barron’s brows draw together. “Take out? As in transform him?” “No,” I say. “As in take out to dinner. She thinks we’d make a good couple.
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She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.
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whatever you love, that is your weakness
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in her dreams, blood tasted like fizzy strawberry soda. If you drank it too fast, you got brain freeze. When she was older, after she'd licked a cut on her finger, the taste of that became the taste in her dreams: copper and tears.
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It feels like the whole world has turned upside down. There aren't any more rules. Hey,' I say to Sam, because if the world's gone crazy, then I guess I can do whatever I want. Guess what? I'm a worker.
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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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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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If I'm not a murderer, asked Corny, how come I keep killing people?
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I hate that everyone calls it growing up, but it seems like DYING.
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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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Keep going' she told herself, 'Don't look back.' But she looked anyways.
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I thought weirdness was a good thing. I don't mean that defensively, either. I thought it was something to be cultivated.
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Death’s favorites don’t die.
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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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It makes you a different person, to not have a past. It eats away at who you are, until what’s left is all construct, all artifice.
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