Quote

That's what living in their world is-a big lie. An illusion where everyone looks the other way and pretends that nothing unpleasant exists at all, no goblins of the dark, no ghosts of the soul.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Soul
Ghost
Nothing
Exists
Looks
Illusion
Way
Dark
Goblins
World
Lying
Goblin
Bigs
Pretends
Everyone
Unpleasant
Living
Ghosts

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Mawah meenon ne le plus poohlala, I say with an affected bow.
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In them, she saw the sham of her life laid out like a book, the foolish belief that she, that anyone, could escape the consequences of this world, could flee from death. That was the deceit. The true serpent in the garden.
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We're all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away--our stories. I guess that's what I love about books--they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or even more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.
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Warning: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.
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We're like pretty horses, and just as on horses, they mean to put blinders on us so we can't look left or right but only straight ahead where they would lead.
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It keeps her purity vacum-sealed to preserve its freshness for her future husband.
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I want to ask him if it’s possible that a girl can be born unlovable, or does she just become that way?
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There is nothing more terrifying than the absoluteness of one who believes he's right.
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I'm floating inside my skin. I could go on floating like this for days. Right now, the real world with its heartbreak and disappointments is just a pulse against the protective membrane we've drunk ourselves into. It's somewhere outside us, waiting. A Great and Terrible Beauty, Page 141, by
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When she can't bring me to heal with scolding, she bends me to shape with guilt.
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Evie wanted to cry. From fear. From exhaustion, yes. But mostly from the cruel uselessness, the damned stupid arbitrariness of it all.
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Peace is not happenstance. It is a living fire that must be fed constantly. It must be tended to with vigilance, else it dies out.
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But the past cannot be changed, and we carry our choices with us, forward, into the unknown. We can only move on.
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You set fire to my house, killed my family, and ate my dog. But steal my boyfriend? That's a step too far.
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Travel opens your mind as few other things do. It is its own form of hypnotism, and I am forever under its spell
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The vicar, whose name is Reverend Waite, leads us in prayers that all begin with 'O Lord' and end with our somehow not being worthy-sinners who have always been sinners and will forever more be sinners until we die. It isn't the most optimistic outlook I've ever heard but we're encouraged to keep trying anyway.
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They don't know what they're in for at Spence, getting me, a ghost of a girl who'll nod and smile and take her tea but who isn't really here.
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So much of the literature we had to read for high school English class was filled with victimized, tragic, symbolic women who spurred the plot forward with their inevitable shunning/death/shunning-followed-by-pregnancy-followed-by-death timelines.
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I know because I read...Your mind is not a cage. It's a garden. And it requires cultivating.
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Men have feelings too, you know. You bruise the petals of my manflower.
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