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His last thought was that it hadn't been stupidity that had allowed his son to enchant him so easily with words. It had been love.

Kristin Cashore

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Kristin Cashore
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: June 10
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Easily
Son
Lasts
Last
Words
Enchant
Thought
Hadn
Love
Stupidity
Allowed

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Normal. She wasn't normal. A girl Graced with killing, a royal thug? A girl who didn't want the husbands Randa pushed on her, perfectly handsome and thoughtful men, a girl who panicked at the thought of a baby at her breast, or clinging to her ankles.
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How acutely sometimes the presence or absence of people mattered
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...when truths disappear, they leave behind blank spaces, and that is also dangerous.
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He thinks we're made of money.
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...that's how memory works ... Things disappear without your permission, then come back again without your permission.
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Children are geniuses.
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When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?
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I wish people would stop hitting Po, whispered Bitterblue. Well, Giddon said. Yes. I'm hoping Skye is following my model. Punch Po go on a long trip feel better come back and make up.
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I wanted you to go away, because it hurts to be with you when I can't see you. - Po
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You're good at love, she said simply, because it seemed to her that it was true. I'm not so good at love. I'm like a barbed creature. I push everyone I love away. He shrugged. I don't mind you pushing me away if it means you love me, little sister.
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You’re crying.” “I’m not.” “Right,” he said mildly. “I suppose you got rained on.
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She knew he was angry, but she couldn't stop laughing. Forgive me, Po. I was only trying to get your attention. And I suppose it never occurs to you to start small. If I told you my roof needed rebuilding, you'd start by knocking down the house.
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She would like to restrain from cruelty and receive no admiration for it.
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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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If we knew a person was going to die, we'd hold harder to the memories. Fire corrected him, in a whisper. The good memories.
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She groped forward, hands and feet, in search of darkness, distance and solitude.
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As she left the room, Po went to Katsa, pulled her up, sat himself in her chair, and drew her into his lap. Shushing her, he rocked her, the two of them holding on to each other as if it were the only thing keeping the world from bursting apart.
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You cannot measure love by a scale of degrees.
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Hidden yourself in a hole and dared to burden no one with your grievous friendship? I will have friends, Katsa. I will have a life, even though I carry this burden.
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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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