Laini Taylor, Strange The Dreamer Quotes
You’re a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable, " she pleaded. "Something beautiful and full of monsters."“Beautiful and full of monsters?"“All the best stories are.
It was cruel. Like opening a birdcage to let the bird fly out, whilst all the while it's tethered by the leg, and freedom is only an illusion.
There was a man who loved the moon, but whenever he tried to embrace her, she broke into a thousand pieces and left him drenched, with empty arms.
There was no echo, no reverberation. If anything the room ate sound. It swallowed her voice, her words, and her eternal, inadequate apology. But not her memories. She would never be rid of those.
You think good people can't hate?" she asked. "You think good people don't kill?"[...}"Good people do all the things bad people do, Lazlo. It's just that when they do them, they call it justice.
What was he? Storyteller and secretary and doer of odd jobs, neither Tizerkane nor delegate, just someone along for the dream.
To be one of a pair of bodies that knew that melting fusion. To reach and find. To be and reached for and found. To belong to a mutual certainty. To wake up holding hands.
She had inherited a story that was strewn with corpses and clotted with enmity, and was only trying to stay alive in it.
He believed in magic, like a child, and in ghosts, like a peasant.
I think you're a fairy tale. I think you're magical, and brave, and exquisite. And I hope you'll let me be in your story.
What's the point of being old if you can't beleaguer the young with your vast stores of wisdom?And what's the point of being young if you can't ignore all advice?
Get out of doors, Strange. Breathe air, see things. A man should have squint lines from looking at the horizon, not just from reading in dim light.
And that's how you go on. You lay laughter over the dark parts. The more dark parts, the more you have to laugh. With defiance, with abandon, with hysteria, any way you can.
He'd sooner die trying to hold the world on his shoulders than running away. Better always to run toward. And so he did.
It was the hate of the used and tormented, who are the children of the used and tormented, and whose own children will be used and tormented.
He drifted about with his head full of myths, always at least half lost in some otherland of story. Demons and wingsmiths, seraphim and spirits, he love it all.
What's a horizon?' Lazlo asked, straight-faced. 'Is it like the end of an aisle of books?
He read while he walked. He read while he ate. The other librarians suspected he somehow read while he slept, or perhaps didn't sleep at all.
It was impossible, of course. But when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming.
Even if it was just walls and a roof with papers inside, it had bewitched him, and drawn him in, and given him everything he needed to become himself.
It was a different life out here, but make no mistake: Lazlo was every bit the dreamer he had always been, if not more. He might have left his books, but he carried all his stories with him.
He wasn't an alchemist, or a hero. He was a librarian, and a dreamer. He was a reader, and the unsung expert on a long-lost city no one cared a thing about.
On the occasions that he did look up from the page, he would seem as though he were awakening from a dream.
Don't look at me like that, " said Ruza."Like what?""Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes.
