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This is the secret that none dares tell who fights for a cause. Dying, we are all alike.

Jacqueline Carey

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Jacqueline Carey
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Highland Park
Illinois
Fighting
Fights
Tell
Alike
Dare
None
Dying
Cause
Causes
Secret
Dares

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A nervous silence loosens tongues
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There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation of a theme
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Only insofar as you enjoy being sorry, my dear, which, while it is a considerable amount, occurs only after the fact, thus making it a singularly ineffective deterrent, yes?
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There are those who are awkward in the face of sorrow, fearing to say the wrong thing to them, I say, there is no wrong in comfort, ever. A kind word, a consoling arm ... these things are ever welcome.
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If you thought better of me, you would not be so surprised
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Grief heals ... unshed tears fester like a canker in the soul.
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Those that yield are not always weak
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Like a falling star, he descended on the Tarbh Cró, a Cassiline berserker, his sword biting and slashing like a silver snake.
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I wish sometimes that the gods would either choose better, or make their wishes clearer
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Your dreaming self seeks to tell you something your waking ears will not hear
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It is a comfort, in anguish, to be reminded of the scale of one's own troubles against the mighty breadth of the world.
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There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.
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We speak of stories ending, when in truth it is we who end. The stories go on and on.
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Even a stunted tree reaches for sunlight.
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There is no fulfillment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire
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We may not have demon fathers dangling offers of infernal power before us, but everyone understands what it means to struggle with temptation or resist the urge to give in to our baser natures.
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It's funny, how one can look back on a sorrow one thought one might well die of at the time, and know that one had not yet reckoned the tenth part of true grief.
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That which yields is not always weak.
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Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.
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And having once chosen, never to seek to return to the crossroads of that decision-for even if one chooses wrongly, the choice cannot be unmade.
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