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Icon of Prague, the medieval bridge crossed the Vltava between Old Town and the Little Quarter. Gothic bridge towers rose on both sides, and the whole span — pedestrian-only — was lined by monumental statues of saints.

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Town
Medieval
Pedestrians
Saint
Statues
Monumental
Towns
Quarter
Lined
Rose
Saints
Gothic
Sides
Towers
Icon
Littles
Bridge
Span
Little
Quarters
Crossed
Prague
Whole
Bridges
Icons
Pedestrian

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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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An idea fell like a seed and over the next weeks it went on growing like a fig vine lush and conquering twining round her old beliefs and covering them in new growth until they were as invisible as a tiger in a thicket and just as deadly.
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I'm going to be the scariest grandma in the world.
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As long as you're alive, there's always a chance things will get better.
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A thousand things might have stopped me from being here right now, but instead, a thousand things brought me here.
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There’s a long pause. But it’s not a bad pause, because Mik is looking at me like I’m the treasure from the high shelf that someone’s just taken down and put into his hands. I find I don’t mind being looked at like this. I don’t mind it at all.
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...wings—-vast shimmering wings, their reach so great they swept the walls on either side of the alley, each feather like the wind-tugged lick of a candle flame.
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The truth, she found, felt smooth, like a skipping stone in the palm of your hand.
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I start to wonder if I’m being creepy. I mean, I am creeping. Does creep-ing automatically make one creep-y? Or are there dispensations for…romance? I bet all stalkers believe they’re being romantic. I did it for love, officer.
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It was interesting the way a small hate could grow inside a big hate and take it over.
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It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.
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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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It’s not stalking if you don't follow them home, right?
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I know it's not easy for you, living this life, but try to remember, always try to remember, you're not the only one with troubles.
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The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.
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Better to be the cat gazing coolly down from a high wall, its expression inscrutable. The cat that shunned petting, that needed no one. Why couldn't she be that cat?
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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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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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She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair. She wasn't innocent now, but she didn't know what to do about it. This was her life: magic and shame and secrets and teeth and a deep, nagging hollow at the center of herself where something was most certainly missing.
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Like a magpie, I am a scavenger of shiny things: fairy tales, dead languages, weird folk beliefs, fascinating religions, and more.
Laini Taylor