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I hate high heels. Walking in high heels for eight hours a day should be forbidden by the Geneva Convention.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Hours
Geneva
Hate
Convention
Forbidden
Conventions
Heels
Eight
Walking
High

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It's always darkest before the ultimate sparkle.
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Power changes everything till it is difficult to say who are the heroes and who the villains.
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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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What makes a girl a girl? What makes a guy a guy? Do you have to be what they want you to be? Or do you stop and listen to that voice inside you? I know who I am. I'm Petra West. And I'm a girl. You want me to sleep somewhere else, fine. Whatever. But I'm not going to pretend to be somebody I'm not. I've done enough of that.
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We're all damaged somehow.-A Great and Terrible Beauty
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Because there's nothing wrong with you... that can't be fixed.
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Really? And what curse befalls the Adams of the world? Ann opens her mouth and, presumably thinking of nothing to say, closes it again. It is Felicity who answers, eyes steely. They are weak to temptation. And we are their temptresses.
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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 should never be left alone with my mind for too long.
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Jericho lay back down on his side, watching her breathe just an arm's length from him. She was not beautiful while she slept her mouth hung open and she snored very lightly, and this, despite everything that had happened, made him smile.
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And for a moment, I understand that I have friends on this lonely path that sometimes your place is not something you find, but something you have when you need it.
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There are no safe choices. Only other choices.
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All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.
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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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The hand you hold the longest is your own.
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I've heard it said that God is in the details. It's the same with the truth. Leave out the details, the crucial heart, and you can damn someone with the bare bones of it.
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Centuries of fighting, and for what? I say. Today it ends. I can't live in fear any longer. I've cursed this power. I've both enjoyed and misused it. And I've hidden it away. Now I must try to wield it correctly, to marry it to a purpose and hope that is enough.
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To live is to love, to love is to live.
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There's a lot about discovering who you are and how difficult that is. And it never stops.
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