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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.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Motorcar
Freud
Tired
Dead
Courses
Course
Sure

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Board the cows! We've come to enslave your marigolds.
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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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It's always darkest before the ultimate sparkle.
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Thou shalt not steal. I seem to recall that being one of God’s I’d rather you didn’t lest I have to smite you into ash commandments.
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Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together.
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Women who have power are always feared.
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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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Retribution is a dog chasing its tail.
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Your mother and I do not approve of drinking. Have you not heard of the Eighteenth Amendment?” “Prohibition? I drink to its health whenever I can.
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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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Prepared to fly, even if she has to loose her legs to do it
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...because really, sometimes the irony gods just get drunk.
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She bestowed the blessing of a wild girl's lips.
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I run after her, not really giving chase. I’m running because I can, because I must. Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.
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May I suggest that you all read? And often. Believe me, it's nice to have something to talk about other than the weather and the Queen's health. Your mind is not a cage. It's a garden. And it requires cultivating.
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We're all damaged somehow.-A Great and Terrible Beauty
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There were few things worse than being ordinary, in Evie’s opinion. Ordinary was for suckers.
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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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The uncertainty of our future is nothing more than a fog of breath on a windowpane.
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In each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice... No one can live in the light all the time.
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