Natalia Jaster Quotes & Sayings

The story was heavy in her hands, the book spread open like legs, the letters very small i spite of describing such a big moment — Natalia Jaster

Since I'm an asshat, I thought I'd have a choice with you, that I'd be able to walk away if you disillusioned me or turned out to be a blood-sucking creature of the night - and okay, I would have bailed if you were evil . . . Or maybe not. Knowing myself, I'd want to save you. But you're not evil. The point is, I'm realizing you're the same as everyone else in my life, only a thousand times more potent, and that has nothing to do with where you come from. I can grit my teeth about what you do, but I can't control how I react to your laugh. I would rather be near you, see you touch everything but me, than be holding any other girl. I like being with you, Love. Playing, talking, fighting, not-touching. — Natalia Jaster

Whoever deemed the ocean an invigorating place needed to reconsider the reality of crashing waves, sunburn, and sand wedged up into places no one should have it. — Natalia Jaster

She watches him for hours. She wants to be the sheets that cover his toes. She wants to be the ceiling separating him from the sky: above him, the first thing he sees before and after dreams. She wants to be the open window letting in the light for him. — Natalia Jaster

If she could explore and heal his injuries with her fingers, it would be another type of magic, her skin making contact with his. Putting her mind to it, Love would become familiar with his body. She would know him from top to bottom, from beginning to end.

Touching this boy would be the death, and life, of her. — Natalia Jaster

Broken hearts made faults and fools of us all. — Natalia Jaster

I forgive you because you matter. You can wreck me, and I'll still forgive you. — Natalia Jaster

A fool is a man who believes glory can be found at the tip of a sword instead of on the tip of his tongue. That is life's cruel trick. — Natalia Jaster

He holds out a trembling hand and traces the shape of her arm, descending to her elbow. "You're like mist," he says. "You really don't feel this?"

Love shakes her head. "No."

But that's not entirely true, because this illusion of a touch has turned her into a current, this human has reached down to her bones.

Then his fingers curl right through her hip, and he lowers his voice. "How 'bout that? — Natalia Jaster

The greatest courage a person can have is to love another, for there are only two outcomes. Either the love lasts, and our lives are compromised, or it doesn't, and our lives are emptied. Either way, we suffer more than we celebrate. I've enjoyed suffering with you. We are a tale for campfires. That is all. That is everything. — Natalia Jaster

It's strange how that happens, isn't it? You forget how something looks, or smells or tastes or sounds.'
'Until it's suddenly there again,' he agreed.
'Like it was never gone. — Natalia Jaster

Putting her mind to it, Love would become familiar with his body. She would know him from top to bottom, from beginning to end. Touching this boy would be the death, and life, of her. She — Natalia Jaster

Andrew stares pointedly at her. From the looks of it, thunderstorms and human traffic jams are cluttering his mind. Doors are opening and closing. He's jealous. The realization makes her feel silly and squeamish. She can't decide whether to glower or giggle some more. She feels like . . . a girl. She wants to punch him. In the face. Hard. Cover that watercolor with one of her own. Then she wants to kiss it, softly, until she has no more soft left in her. "Anger — Natalia Jaster

Poet, do you think a melody would compliment one of you poems? I was fixing to compose one, fiddling with ideas in my head, but...would that make it a song and not a poem anymore? And I'm not saying I'll jot the tune down, but if I did, if you wanted it...that is to say, if you agreed, would that mean the poem has died? I don't want my lute to kill it, you see. Only when does a poem stop being a poem? Can it be a song, too?" He dropped his head and spoke to my boots. "Can they blend together?"
If only he were truly referring to artistry. — Natalia Jaster