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Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Tempted
Fades
English
Rose
Beauty
Forever
Thorns
Roses

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It keeps her purity vacum-sealed to preserve its freshness for her future husband.
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This is the world we live in, Gemma, for better or for worse. Make of it what you can, he says, and I pull him to me.
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She wished she were as inconsequential as the ghosts in her dreams.
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In a world like this one, only the random makes sense.
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You can’t blame a fella for kissing the prettiest girl in New York, can you, sister?” Sam’s grin was anything but apologetic. Evie brought up her knee quickly and decisively, and he dropped to the floor like a grain sack. “You can’t blame a girl for her quick reflexes now, can you, pal?
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If this were a movie, I would bust a secret move so fierce the entire place would be razed to the ground. I'd finish with something snappy like And don't forget my soda, punk while I strolled off into the night.
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Women who have power are always feared.
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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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Just once I’d like to meet a fella who isn’t a phony. Somebody who doesn’t wanna buy me a fur so he can show me off to his boys.
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Hot off the presses, today’s headlines: The love of your life does not approve of my wanton flapper ways,” Evie said in a voice of affected mystery. “Really, Mabesie. You might want to reconsider—he is a bit of a killjoy.
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I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.
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Why should we girls not have the same privileges as men? Why do we police ourselves so stringently- whittling each other down with cutting remarks or holding ourselves back from greatness with a harness woven of fear and shame and longing? If we do not deem ourselves worthy first, how shall we ever ask for more?
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I know because I read...Your mind is not a cage. It's a garden. And it requires cultivating.
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There was something about the island that made the girls forget who they had been. All those rules and shalt nots. They were no longer waiting for some arbitrary grade. They were no longer performing. Waiting. Hoping. They were becoming. They were.
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Any book that can help you survive the slings and arrows of adolescence is a book to love for life 'The Catcher in the Rye' did just that, and I still do love it.
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But aren't many gardens beautiful because they are imperfect?...aren't the strange, new flowers that arise by mistake or misadventure as pleasing as the well-tended and planned?
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Peace is not happenstance. It is a living fire that must be fed constantly. It must be tended to with vigilance, else it dies out.
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Things aren't good or bad in and of themselves. It's what we do with them that makes them so.
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No one can live in the light all the time.
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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.
Libba Bray