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Betrayal would be a different sort of sick.

Robin McKinley

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Robin McKinley
Age: 71
Born: 1952
Born: November 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Warren
Ohio
Jennifer Carolyn Robin McKinley
Sort
Different
Would
Betrayal
Sick

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Sometimes it is better not to know. Sometimes when you do know you just fold up.
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My capacity for invention is flash hot stark, I thought. Sucker sunshade. Disembodied radar-reconnaissance. Not to mention Bitter Chocolate Death and Killer Zebras. Pity about the rest of me.
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It seems to me further, that it is very odd that fate should leave so careful a trail, and spend so little time preparing the one that must follow it.
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Stay a little while longer, and let everyone congratulate you - including the ones who clearly don't want to: in fact, especially the ones who clearly don't want to. You don't have to say anything but 'thank you
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As I have said, you have no reason to trust me, and an excellent reason not to.
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I love you. I will love you till the stars crumble, which is a less idle threat than is usual to lovers on parting.
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It is a much more straightforward thing to be a dog, and a dog's love, once given, is not reconsidered.
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What you describe is how it happens to everyone: magic does slide through you, and disappear, and come back later looking like something else. And I'm sorry to tell you this, but where your magic lives will always be a great dark space with scraps you fumble for. You must learn to sniff them out in the dark.
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She, too, spoke only when the queen or king addressed her first, but she looked searchingly at every supplicant, and her clear face said that she had opinions about everything she heard, and that it was her proud duty to think out those opinions, and make them responsible and coherent.
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I long for another human face just as I fear it.
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Vampire. Dangerous. Unknowable. Seriously creepy. This one's name was Constantine. We'd met before.
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[Harry] had always suffered from a vague restlessness, a longing for adventure that she told herself severely was the result of reading too many novels when she was a small child.
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He grunted she recognized it as relief that she wasn't going to nag him further about Tor the Just, who probably wasn't that boring if he could hold off the Notherners for nine days and melt a hole in the hills.
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My kind [vampires] does not surprise easily, he said. You surprised me, this morning. I have thus used up my full quota of shock and consternation for some interval. I stared at him. You made a *joke*. I have heard this kind of thing may happen.
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Tell me who you are. You need not tell me your name. Names have power, even human ones. Tell me where you live and what you do with your living.
Robin McKinley
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I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of [it] at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself.
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The great thing about fantasy is that you can drag dreams and longings and hopes and fears and strivings out of your subconscious and call them 'magic' or 'dragons' or 'faeries' and get to know them better. But then I write the stuff. Obviously I'm prejudiced.
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Mice are terribly chatty. They will chat about anything, and if there is nothing to chat about, they will chat about having nothing to chat about. Compared to mice, robins are reserved.
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But it was equally clear to her that this was her fate, that she had called its name and it had come to her, and she could do nothing now but own it.
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Can't all beasts be tamed?
Robin McKinley