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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
High
Hours
Geneva
Hate
Convention
Forbidden
Conventions
Heels
Eight
Walking

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I've been poked and prodded in places I'd always prided myself on keeping untouched for that one special doctor who gives me a ring and a promise someday.
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I don't have time to feel sorry for myself. I've got to think.
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It keeps her purity vacum-sealed to preserve its freshness for her future husband.
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I shan't ever understand your willingness to lie down and die, Felicity bars. If you won't at least try to fight, I have no sympathy for you.
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How terrible it is to have no cares, no longings. I do not fit. I feel too deeply and want too much. As cages go, it is a gilded one, but I shall not live well in it or any cage for that matter.
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Retribution is a dog chasing its tail.
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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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Next time we see you, you’ll be on trial for some ingenious crime!” Dottie said with a laugh. Evie grinned. “Just as long as they know my name.
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Promise. Don't misunderstand me-you are quite vexing. He touches his tender jaw. And you hit like a man. But you didn't cause his illness. That is his doing.
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It's so laughable that it's somewhere beyond comedy and right into tragedy again.
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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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Brought to you by The Corporation: In your homes and in your pants.
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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.
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Could I have a Sloe Gin Fizz, without the gin? What's the point of that, Miss? the waiter said. Tomorrow morning, Mabel said.
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To those who will see, the world waits.
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We're all damaged somehow.-A Great and Terrible Beauty
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No one can steal our dream.
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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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Think: who has vans, huh? Soccer moms and serial killers.
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