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Fate, Blue replied, glowering at her mother, is a very weighty word to throw around before breakfast.

Maggie Stiefvater

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Maggie Stiefvater
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: November 18
Novelist
Writer
Harrisonburg
Virginia
Fate
Word
Mother
Around
Weighty
Replied
Breakfast
Throw
Blue

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You know what I mean. I'm telling you I was stupid over it. I thought it was about trying so hard to survive that you didn't have the time to be a good parent. Obviously, that's not it. Because you and I, we're both...wealthy in love.
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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 have a certain avoidance of reality that makes fantasy an ideal choice for me.
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I was against felonies when a misdemeanor would do.
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Now I am the unknown, the unknowable.
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How do you feel about helicopters? There was a long pause. How do you mean? Ethically? As a mode of transportation. Faster than camels, but less sustainable.
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He sounded absolutely miserable. “Are you ever going to speak to me?
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Death smells like birthday cake.
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I've always loved reading fantasy. I used to pick out all the books in the library that had the little unicorn sticker on the side to show that they were fantasy.
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The Boy should watch where he’s going,” she said. “Rachel should not manifest in doorways,” I replied.
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There's no such thing as a good book or a bad book. There's a book that matters to a reader.
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I won't let this be my good-bye. I've folded one thousand paper crane memories of me and Grace, and I've made my wish. I will find a cure. And then I will find Grace.
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I don't think I'd like to argue with you, I say. I think it would be a very dissatisfying pastime.
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One thousand ways to say good-bye One thousands ways to cry One thousand ways to hang your hat before you go outside I say good-bye good-bye good-bye I shout it out so loud Cause the next time that I find my voice I might not remember how.
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As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories.
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Flickering lights anonymous doors my heart escaping in drips i'm still waking up but she's still sleeping this ICU is hotel for the dead
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Counter Girl (in candy shop): You two are cute. Seriously. How long have you been going out? Sam: Six years.
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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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...the sound of our lack of conversation amplified by the echo of our footsteps on the stone around us.
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