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I'm sorry, Gemma. But we can't live in the light all of the time. You have to take whatever light you can hold into the dark with you.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Sorry
Hold
Dark
Whatever
Light
Live
Take
Time
Gemma

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Oh, sure. Of course, they say now that we’ve got Freud and the motorcar, God is dead.” “He’s not dead just very tired.
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Yes, go on. Leave. You're always coming and going. The rest of us are stuck here. Do you think he'd still love you if he knew who you are? He doesn't really care—only when it suits him.
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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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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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I hate high heels. Walking in high heels for eight hours a day should be forbidden by the Geneva Convention.
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These are hard times. The world hurts. We live in fear and forget to walk with hope. But hope has not forgotten you. So ask it to dinner. It's probably hungry and would appreciate the invitation.
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Theta crashed next to them on the thick zebra-skin rug. “I’m embalmed.” “Potted and splificated?” “Ossified to the gills. Time for night-night.
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People will believe anything if it means they can go on with their lives and not have to think too hard about it.
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She never utters a sound even when she's crying, and that makes me a little sad. Doesn't seem right. When you cry, people should hear you. The world should stop.
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