Lauren Willig Quotes
Old books exert a strange fascination for me -- their smell, their feel, their history; wondering who might have owned them, how they lived, what they felt.
Patience is only a virtue when there is something worth waiting for.
Tell them I have the headache--no, the plague! I need something nice and contagious.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that one only comes up with clever, cutting remarks long after the other party is happily slumbering away.
LIPID (Last Idiot Person I Dated) syndrome: a largely undiagnosed but pervasive disease that afflicts single women.
There's nothing so attractive as a blank slate. Take one attractive man, slap on a thick coat of daydream, and voila, the perfect man. With absolutely no resemblance to reality.
The French just said he was a damned nuisance. Or they would have had they the good fortune to speak English. Instead being French they were forced to say it in their own language.
It was lovely to see cynicism in one so young. It positively restored his faith in human nature.
They were a strange and mercantile people, these Americans. One never knew what they might come up with next.
My own inclination is to skew towards humor. They say that some people view life as a comedy, others as a tragedy. Me? Comedy all the way.
I never sat down and said, 'I'm going to write historical fiction with strong romantic elements.' It was just the way the stories went.
Turning to Turnip, Miss Dempsey said, 'Do you think?'. 'As little as I can, ' Turnip replied honestly.
Amy wondered if Bonaparte could declare war on Miss Gwen alone without breaking his peace with England
It's the exile's dilemma. The home they yearn for is never the home to which they return. If they return.
No sin is original, no matter what the bright young things may hope. We're all merely playing to a theme.
It would be, like all of Pammy's parties, hot and crowded and filled with impossibly glamorous people with hip bones so sharp they could qualify as concealed weapons.
This was what the poets couldn't put in their poetry, she thought dumbly, the rush of desire so fierce and pure it made one shake, all on the force of a word.
Such kindness wasn't a gift but a goad, scraping against one's skin like a yoke of thorns. She would have preferred him stiff, defensive, even offensive.
If a man took a lover it would be accounted commonplace. Why shouldn't you? Your virtue lies in your mind, not in what lies between your legs.
