Quote

Its so daunting to walk into a classroom or a school auditorium. Its like the worlds weirdest blind date. I know all the students are thinking, Who is this tool standing up in front of us?

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Students
Date
Walk
Tool
Walks
Worlds
School
Tools
Auditorium
Thinking
Blind
Auditoriums
Like
Fronts
Weirdest
World
Front
Daunting
Standing
Classroom

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Cash or check?” he said cheekily. Even the dullest Ohio girls knew that bit of lingo: Kiss now or kiss later? “Bank’s closed, pal.
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She was chosen,' Mae insists. No, you're wrong,' I say. 'She was only a girl.'... She was gone for some time. You were the only force that kept her from turning completely. That's magic. Perhaps the most powerful I've seen.' -In response to Felicity's love for Pippa keeping her from turning into a Winterland creature.
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And now I understand that truth casts a spell of its own, one I'm not sure of how to hold on to, though I'm desperate to try.
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The trouble with morning is that it comes well before noon.
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...I took Advanced PowerPoint last semester. You guys are always misunderestimating me. I'm totally ready to handle the big stuff.
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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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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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All things are possible.
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But the past cannot be changed, and we carry our choices with us, forward, into the unknown. We can only move on.
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It's possible to pretend I'm someone other than who I am, and if I pretend long enough, I can believe it.
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Please, I'm a transgender former boy-bander. You think I don't know how to defend myself?
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You are absolute angels of the first order. If I were Pope, I’d canonize you.” “The Pope would probably love to turn a cannon on you!
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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 told myself it was the snow—she couldn’t possibly get to Philadelphia on the roads. I told myself a hundred lies. Children do that. It’s amazing the sorts of things you’ll make yourself believe.
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The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves.
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Men have feelings too, you know. You bruise the petals of my manflower.
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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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We have work to do if you are not to be a total failure like high-waisted, acid-wash jeans.
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Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.
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What do you feel? I’ve never been asked this question once. None of us has. We aren’t supposed to feel. We’re British.
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