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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.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Come
Gemma
Bright
Hold
Trust
Says
Call
Light
Back

More quotes by Libba Bray

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I can see his pain, see it in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, over and over, and I understand what it costs him to hide it all.
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She hadn’t meant to get trapped in a conversation. That was the trouble with offering help to old people.
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She is the elephant’s eyebrows,” Evie whispered appreciatively. “Those jewels! How her neck must ache.” “That’s why Bayer makes aspirin,” Mabel whispered back, and Evie smiled, knowing that even a socialist wasn’t immune to the dazzle of a movie star.
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I hear they feed you in Sing Sing,” Evie muttered. “Three squares a day.” “Evangeline,” Will said with a sigh. “Charity begins at home.” “So does mental illness.
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I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.
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Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.
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It's as if I've inherited a skin I cannot quite fit, and so I walk about constantly pulling and and tugging, pinning and pruning, trying desperately to fill it out, hoping that no one will look at me struggling and say, 'That one there- she's a fraud, Look how she doesn't fit at all.
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She's no beauty, mate
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Reality is a state of mind. To the banker, the money in his ledger book is all very real, though he doesn't actually see it or touch it. But to the Brahma, it simply doesn't exist the way the air and the earth, pain and loss do. To him, the banker's reality is folly. To the banker, the Brahma's ideas are as inconsequential as dust.
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She knew what it was to wait for someone who would never come home. She knew that grief, like a scar, faded but never really went away.
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We don't look at each other anymore. Not really. Not since I pulled him from that opium den. Now when I look at him, I see the addict. And when he looks at me, he sees what he would rather not remember. I wish I could be his adored little girl again, sitting at his side.
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Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.
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Tell my brother to remember his heart in all things. That is where his honor and his destiny will be found. Tell him.
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People have a habit of inventing fictions they will believe wholeheartedly in order to ignore the truth they cannot accept.
Libba Bray
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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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On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.
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I'd like to thank readers. Every time you open a book, it is a strike against ignorance. Unless you're reading Sarah Palin.
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Truth casts a spell of its own.
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But sons are a different matter to a man. More a duty than an indulgence.
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Maybe girls need an island to find themselves. Maybe they need a place where no one's is watching them so they can be who they really are
Libba Bray