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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.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Dies
Peace
Living
Happenstance
Else
Tended
Must
Vigilance
Life
Feds
Constantly
Fire

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I'm going to eviscerate you and leave your organs on a pike in the yard as a warning to those who wear large jewelry.
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Please do not strain yourself, Miss Doyle. I won't have my girls going cross-eyed in the name of art.
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Nobody Wants to be themselves. That's why there's tv. -Ephigenia.
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No, I call. Come back. I'm here, he says. But I can't see. It's too bright. You can't hold back the light, Gemma. I'm here. Trust me.
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Hot off the presses, today’s headlines: The love of your life does not approve of my wanton flapper ways,” Evie said in a voice of affected mystery. “Really, Mabesie. You might want to reconsider—he is a bit of a killjoy.
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Board the cows! We've come to enslave your marigolds.
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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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In a world like this one, only the random makes sense.
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Retribution is a dog chasing its tail.
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So, now I've been to see a drug counselor who told me I need to lay off the drugs and talk about my feelings, and a shrink who heard what I had to say and immediately put me on drugs.
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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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They kept the lie going, and the people loved it.
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Just once I’d like to meet a fella who isn’t a phony. Somebody who doesn’t wanna buy me a fur so he can show me off to his boys.
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We have work to do if you are not to be a total failure like high-waisted, acid-wash jeans.
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It isn't that we do what we want. It's that we're allowed to want at all.
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In books, the truth makes everything good and fine. The good prevail. The wicked are punished. There is happiness. But it's not like that really, is it? No, I say. I suppose it only makes everything known.
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How I'd love to get away from here and be someone else for a while in a place where no one knows or expects certain things from me.
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Or perhaps it is some combination of spirit and desire, love and hope, some alchemy that we each possess and can put to use, if we first know where to look without flinching.
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A man bumps me on his busy way without so much as an apology. But that is all right. I forgive you, busy man about town with the sharp elbows. Hail and farewell to you! For I, Gemma Doyle, am to have a splendid Christmas in London town. All shall be well. God rest us merry gentlemen. And gentlewomen.
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How can my ankles and arms be obscene?
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