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While I was looking the other way your fire went out Left me with cinders to kick into dust What a waste of the wonder you were In my living fire I will keep your scorn and mine In my living fire I will keep your heartache and mine At the disgrace of a waste of a life

Kristin Cashore

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Kristin Cashore
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: June 10
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Left
Mines
Keep
Mine
Cinders
Way
Waste
Heartache
Life
Went
Disgrace
Fire
Scorn
Wonder
Kick
Looking
Kicks
Living
Dust

More quotes by Kristin Cashore

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Danzhol. The one with the marriage proposal and the objections to the town charter in central Monsea. Bacon, Bitterblue muttered. Bacon! she repeated, then carefully made her way up the spiral stairs.
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It has been a hard lesson to learn, that greatness requires suffering.
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I love you, he said. You're more dear to my heart than I ever knew anyone else can be. And I've made you cry and there I'll stop. She was crying, but not because of his words. It was because of a certainty she refused to consider while she sat before him.
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She would like to restrain from cruelty and receive no admiration for it.
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I’m suspicious of the notion of a single book that would benefit everyone to read.
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Please, Katsa, he finally said. At least talk to me. She swung around to face him. What it there to talk about? You know how I feel, and what I think about it. And what I feel? Doesn't it matter?
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I've liked you better when Katsa's around, Giddon said. She's so rotten to me that you seem positively pleasant in contrast.
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You’re crying.” “I’m not.” “Right,” he said mildly. “I suppose you got rained on.
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A man who fights you as he does is no better than an opportunist and no worse than a thug.
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Mercy was more frightening than murder, because it was harder.
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And, he continued, his strange smile gleaming, as I see it, our hearts are not so different in size. I murdered my father. You murdered yours. Is that something you did with a large heart?
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Your eyes are beautiful, he said, and she felt warm suddenly, warm in the sun that dappled through the treetops and rested on them in patches.
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Alone with Giddon again, Bitterblue considered him, rather liking the mud streaks on his face. He looked like a handsome sunken rowboat.
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She groped forward, hands and feet, in search of darkness, distance and solitude.
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He thinks we're made of money.
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They seemed no closer to the tops of the peaks that rose before them. It was only by looking back, to the forest far below, that she knew they'd climbed.
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His name was Death. It was pronounced to rhyme with teeth, but Bitterblue liked to mispronounce it by accident on occassion.
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Then she marched to the pillows and beat them mercilessly until they lay puffed out like obedient clouds.
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Mercy was more frightening than murder, because it was harder, and Randa didn't deserve it. And even though she wanted what the voice wanted, she didn't think she had the courage for it.
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I've always been led to believe that the ultimate goal for an author is the movie deal. Now I understand that the movie deal is merely a MEANS TO A MUCH HIGHER END: NAIL POLISH.
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