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Once upon a time, a little girl was raised by monsters. But angels burned the doorways to their world, and she was all alone.

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Girl
Doorways
Littles
Burned
Little
Angels
Time
Monsters
World
Angel
Raised
Alone
Upon

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As long as you're alive, there's always a chance things will get better.
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...and she felt the words come from some iron place within her that hadn't existed an hour ago. She didn't speak loudly, but there was such a change in her voice. Coming from that iron place, it was heavy and true it wasn't persuasive, or desperate, or antagonistic. It just was.
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That faeries have forgotten the Tapestry that is the greatest tragedy of all. It's the fabric of all creation and it's woven of dreams, the dreams of the Djinn. Dreams are real, Magpie. They're seed and water and sun. They're everything.
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Bitter, bitter, this desolation of angels.
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When you are young, hone your craft and write shorter pieces instead of novels, because it's really hard to finish a novel.
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I shudder to think. I might wear lace collars and laugh flower petals and pearls. People might try to pat me. I see them think it. My height triggers the puppy-kitten reflex- Must touch-and I've found that since you can't electrify yourself like a fence, the next best thing is to have murderer's eyes.
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We dreamed together of the world remade.
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I will give them nightmares to haunt their dreams long after I'm gone.
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And I've found that since you can't electrify yourself like a fence, the next best thing is to have murderer's eyes.
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It was brave, countered Issa. It was rare. It was love, and it was beautiful.
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Was there any fate more bitter than to get what you long for most, when it's too late?
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It was sadness, lostness, and the worst thing about it was the way it seemed like a default—like it was there all the time, and all her other expressions were just an array of masks she used to cover it up.
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And they were quiet but their blood and nerves and butterflies were not—they were rampantly alive, rushing and thrumming in a wild and perfect melody, matched note for note.
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These soldiers had done what they had done, and been done unto in return. This was how it went. In the cycle of slaughter, reprisal begat reprisal, forever.
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Take up a weapon and you become an instrument with as pure a purpose as the weapon itself: to find arteries and open them, limbs and sever them to take what is alive and deliver it unto death.
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A wave of weariness took him. How could life be so unrelentingly ugly?
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...they cupped their wings around their happiness and called it a world, though they both knew it was not a world, only a hiding place, which is a very different thing.
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You have only to begin, Lir. Mercy breeds mercy as slaughter breeds slaughter. We can’t expect the world to be better than we make it.
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He was right. It made no sense at all, but the feeling flooded through Karou, and whatever it was, it was as sweet as a patch of sun on a glossy floor and, like a cat, she just wanted to curl up in it.
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Her courage was a guise. She wondered if courage always was, or if there were those who truly felt no fear.
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