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I sense that his drowning but I don't have any idea of how to start to put my hand into the water and save him.
Maggie Stiefvater
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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Ideas
Drowning
Save
Hand
Start
Water
Idea
Sense
Hands
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I lost a horse today.' 'That sounds careless. What happened?' 'She jumped off a cliff.' 'A cliff! Is that normal?
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I'll cook the water.
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The guitar, I said, will only obey its master. Yeah, Cole agreed, but Grace isn't here. He grinned at me slyly.
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He's a pit bull, Adam said. I know some really nice pit bulls. He's the kind of pit that makes the evening news. Gansey's trying to restrain him. How noble.
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If you never saw the stars, candles were enough.
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The way Gansey saw it was this: if you had a special knack for finding things, it meant you owed the world to look.
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There was something awful about terror trapped behind silence.
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The only thing was, she didn't really want to see the future. What she wanted was to see something no one else could see or would see, and maybe that was asking for more magic that was in the world.
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His was the disease we couldn’t cure. His was the good-bye that meant the most
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His eyes were frighteningly alive, the curve of his mouth savage and pleased. It suddenly didn't seem at all surprising that he should be able to pull things from his dreams. In that moment, Blue was a little in love with all of them. Their magic. Their quest. Their awfulness and strangeness. Her raven boys.
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I'm not done writing songs about you yet.
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Grace, who haunted my thoughts when I couldn’t dream
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Would we be so enamored with dystopian fiction if we lived in a culture where violent death was a major concern? It wouldn't be escapism.
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It's all you think about, all you talk about, and all you want us to talk about. What in the world would we call something like that? Oh, yeah! An obsession!
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..and me holding this moment that was as fragile as a bird in my hands
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I don't know if I'd want to be comforted, if I'm being honest. If I'm being forced to eat soot, I want to know that somewhere else in the world, someone else has to eat soot as well. I want to know that soot tastes terrible. I don't want to be told that soot's good for the digestion. And of course, by soot, I mean beans.
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I hated it. I hated this. I hated feeling so terrible because of someone else.
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I had risked everything, and I had nothing to show for it but my open hand, lying empty and palm up toward the ceiling.
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I was against felonies when a misdemeanor would do.
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He was struck by the details of the moment. This was something he needed to remember, when he dreamt. This feeling right here: heart thudding, pollen sticky on his fingertips, July pricking sweat at his breastbone, the smell of gasoline and someone else's charcoal grill.
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