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How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.

Tanith Lee

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Tanith Lee
Age: 67 †
Born: 1947
Born: September 19
Died: 2015
Died: May 24
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
London
England
Esther Garber
Judas Garbah
Ground
Massively
None
Whispered
Mountain
Blows
Stand
Kissed
Away
Mountains
Stills
Sand
Still
Lows
Blow

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Your dreams will betray you. Go nowhere on a horse that fades.
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You should visit before you pass judgment on a place.
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The so-called Real World. Human misery and sadness. Blind politics and general cruelty.
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Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.
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In the greater part of humankind there resides an instinct for survival. It is this which can clutch at straws and effect a rescue from them. It is this which can, now and then, outwit fate.
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It's very selfish when I write. I'm not aware, ever, of writing for another person I'm not even really aware of writing for myself.
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I like writing about women, weak and strong, pathetic and heroic. I like writing about men, ditto. And all the variants of men and women, beasts and demons.
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Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
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What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.
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No one is ever ordinary.
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The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.
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I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.
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He sat by her, watching every gesture she made, as if he would paint her portrait afterward.
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World's flying like birds my car's in flight. The city lights are spattered on my windshield like the fragments of the night. And I'm in flight. The sky's a wheel, a merry-go-round of wings and snow and steel, and fire. We'll tread the sky, we'll ride the scarlet horses.
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It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.
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I came up with a parallel Venice called Venus. set in a parallel Venice about 1701.
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Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.
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No one more cynical than an idealist.
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I was reading some complex books in my own youth-and no, I didnt always understand every word, let alone every concept-but I got the main thrust, which was like a lifeline in a fluctuating world.
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The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?
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