Blood Song Quotes & Sayings

Sella smiled sadly as she laid the scarf on her knees, her fingers tracing over the delicate gold-thread pattern (...) The moon, the sing of calm reflection, from where reason and balance are derived (...) The sun, source of passion, love, anger (...) We exist here, between the two. Grown from the earth, warmed by the sun, cooled by the moonlight night. Your brother's heart had been pulled too far into the sun, fired with anger and regret. Now he has cooled and he looks to the moon for guidance. — Anthony Ryan

Kizzy wanted to be a woman who would dive off the prow of a sailboat into the sea, who would fall back in a tangle of sheets, laughing, and who could dance a tango, lazily stroke a leopard with her bare foot, freeze an enemy's blood with her eyes, make promises she couldn't possibly keep, and then shift the world to keep them. She wanted to write memoirs and autograph them at a tiny bookshop in Rome, with a line of admirers snaking down a pink-lit alley. She wanted to make love on a balcony, ruin someone, trade in esoteric knowledge, watch strangers as coolly as a cat. She wanted to be inscrutable, have a drink named after her, a love song written for her, and a handsome adventurer's small airplane, champagne-christened Kizzy, which would vanish one day in a windstorm in Arabia so that she would have to mount a rescue operation involving camels, and wear an indigo veil against the stinging sand, just like the nomads.
Kizzy wanted. — Laini Taylor

Desert winds blow hard at me
Till we reach the shining sea.
And borne away across the waves
My lover's life I'll sail to save. — Anthony Ryan

The mother sings a hungry song
Of blood and cracking teeth
She dances in the dark below
wants to pull us underneath

Her claws, they rise, they sway in dance
to the melody of screams
Her lullaby will never end
till the world comes apart at the seams — Amy Lukavics

The only person in my head is me.
Tibe is not the same. The crown has changed him, as you feared it would.
The fire is in him, the fire that will burn all the world.
And it is in your son, in the prince who will never change his blood and will never sit a throne.
The only person in my head is me.
The only person who has not changed is you. You are still the little girl in a dusty room, forgotten, unwanted, out of place. You are the queen of everything, mother to a beautiful son, wife to a king who loves you, and still you cannot find it in yourself to smile.
Still you make nothing.
Still you are empty.
The only person in your head is you.
And she is no one of any importance.
She is nothing — Victoria Aveyard

"MAKE RED YOUR CLAWS WITH HUMAN BLOOD ... OBLITERATE THE HUMAN FILTH ... "
"Ooh, that's a nice song," said the Hogfly, ever polite. — Cressida Cowell

The Dark is a word for the ignorant. The people hare are Gifted. Different powers, different abilities. But Gifted. Like you. — Anthony Ryan

The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered gleam of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious death would drink his blood, and grow young again. — Madeline Miller

What else was there for me? Hunger and fear and a knife in an alley to leave me bleeding in a gutter." Frentis gripped his shoulder. "Now I have brothers who would die in my defense, as I would die for them. Now I have Faith." His smile was fierce, unwavering, complete in its conviction. "What is Faith, brother?". — Anthony Ryan

From the seed of the thief
The Dragon will rise,
the gluttonous one,
feeding on the blood of babes,
Drinking the tears of mothers.
- Song of Venda — Mary E. Pearson

This is how things come to pass in the world,' one of the princes is supposed to have said. 'Blood flows one way in life and another way in song, and one never knows which flow is the right one. — Ismail Kadare

I forget myself sometimes, but then I look up, as I am looking up now, and I see in my mind's eye a sheild, strangely changed by a rich encrusting of jewel-like barnacles and cold-water coral, with an eight foot tooth sticking right out of the middle of it. I reach out and the edge of that tooth is still so bitingly sharp after all these years that just a gentle brush with the fingers might send a rain of blood down on these pages. And I bend my head, not too close, and I am sure I can hear, very faintly:
Once I set the sea alight
With a single fiery breath ...
Once I was so mighty that I thought
My name was Death ...
Sing out loud until you're eaten,
Song of melancholy blisss,
For the mighty and the middling
All shall come to THIS ...
The Supper is still singing. — Cressida Cowell

It felt safer to run, a moving target was harder to hit. But this vague sense of security evaporated when the darkness came, it was like running in a void where every step brought the threat of a painful fall. — Anthony Ryan

Oh the madness of battle! We fear it, we celebrate it, the poets sing of it, and when it fills the blood like fire it is a real madness. It is joy! All the terror is swept away, a man feels he could live for ever, he sees the enemy retreating, knows he himself is invincible, that even the gods would shrink from his blade and his bloodied shield. And I was still keening that mad song, the battle song of slaughter, the sound that blotted out the screams of dying men and the crying of the wounded. It is fear, of course, that feeds the battle madness, the release of fear into savagery. You win in the shield wall by being more savage than your enemy, by turning his savagery back into fear. — Bernard Cornwell

How is faith to endure, O God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity's song
all without lifting a finger that we could see. You have allowed bonds of love beyond number to be painfully snapped. If you have not abandoned us, explain yourself.
We strain to hear. But instead of hearing an answer we catch sight of God himself scraped and torn. Through our tears we see the tears of God. — Nicholas Wolterstorff

Her wrath became a song in her blood as she ended them. — Sarah J. Maas

There are monsters all around us
They can be so hard to see
hey don't have fangs, no blood-soaked claws
They look like you and me.

But we're not defenseless
We're no damsels in distress
Together we can fend off the attack
All we gotta do is watch our backs.

Your body is beautiful how it is
Who you love is nobody's business
We all contemplate life and death
It's the poet who gives these thoughts
breath.

The monster is strong, don't be mistaken
It thrives on fear-keeps us isolated
But together we can fend off its attack
All we gotta do is watch our backs.

In your darkest hour
When the fight's made you weary
When you think you've lost your power
When you can't see clearly
When you're ready to surrender
Give in to the black
look over your shoulder
I've got your back. — Gayle Forman

The music glides between the pores of your skin to bubble through your veins in place of blood, and you can't help but clutch the mic with both trembling hands and let the song flow out of you like blood from a wound. In those moments, when the music has replaced everything and even awareness of your own body has faded, you can't breathe, can't do anything but let the song own you, let the performance rocket through you. There's no people, no problems in your life, no buzz of alcohol in your blood or pain in your heart. — Jasinda Wilder

I don't hate the music, but I hate the process. When I look at it, I don't see song titles and artwork, I see the fight - I see the emotions, the blood, sweat and tears. There are a couple of songs on there that I love; but 'Lasers' is a little bit of what you love, a little bit of what you like, and a lot of what you had to do. — Lupe Fiasco

Humor keeps the elderly rolling along, singing a song. When you laugh, its an involuntary explosion of the lungs. The lungs need to replenish themselves with oxygen. So you laugh, you breathe, the blood runs, and everything is circulating. If you dont laugh, youll die. — Mel Brooks

I do not mean merely in its adding to enthusiasm that intellectual basis which in its strength, or that more obvious influence about which Wordsworth was thinking when he said very nobly that poetry was merely the impassioned expression in the face of science, and that when science would put on a form of flesh and blood the poet would lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration. Nor do I dwell much on the great cosmical emotion and deep pantheism of science to which Shelley has given its first and Swinburne its latest glory of song, but rather on its influence on the artistic spirit in preserving that close observation and the sense of limitation as well as of clearness of vision which are the characteristics of the real artist. — Oscar Wilde

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruit and flowers. — William Blake

all is dead
but for the mosquitoes
singing
their blood song — Thabo Jijana

If I'm on a bus and someone makes my blood boil, I'll pocket those emotions and put them in a song. — Jessie J.

I always knew I'd be a sailor. In my cradle, playing with my toes, I knew it. What else could there have been? The sailors had made my blood move before I was born, I now believe. As my mother stood one night upon the shit-smelling Bermondsey shore with me in her belly, the sailors had sung out there across the great river, and their siren song had come to the shell-pink enormity that was my listening ear newly formed in the amniotic fluid.
Or so I believe. — Carol Birch

I dreamed about you too," he said softly, letting his smile go dreamy as he watched the blood drain from the bigger man's face. "I fantasized about cutting off your balls and feeding them to you." "Fuck you, Levi." There was laughter in his voice. "Oh wait, I already did," he said as he walked away. His gym bag slung over his shoulder, whistling the rival school's fight song. — Mercy Celeste

Life songs of ages, throbbing in my blood, have danced the rhythm of the tide and flood. — Michael Jackson

Don't say another goddamn word. Up until now, I've been polite. If you say anything else--word one--I will kill myself. And when my tainted spirit finds its destination, I will topple the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I will lash together a machine of bone and blood, and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine will bore a hole between this world and that one. When it begins you will hear the sound of children screaming--as though from a great distance. A smoking orb of nothing will grow above your bed, and from it will emerge a thousand starving crows. As I slip through the widening maw in my new form, you will catch only a glimpse of my radiance before you are incinerated. Then, as tears of bubbling pitch stream down my face, my dark work will begin. I will open one of my six mouths, and I will sing the song that ends the Earth. — Jerry Holkins

In the distance I hear a song - a simple song - a song of despair - a song of longing and a song of sorrow.
I have forgotten the words and the rhythm, but I sing.
Yes, I sing. — Pietros Maneos

The lover never sees personal resemblances in his mistress to her kindred or to others. His friends find in her a likeness to hermother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and the song of birds. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

A woman of keen mind but no moral scruple whatever. And an occasionally violent temper. Just how many time did you stab that merchant, Derla? I forget. — Anthony Ryan

Men crawl in slime and wallow in the mud;
The Realist groans: "All life is mud ans slime!"
Men lie and steal and shed each other's blood;
And Realism sees but blood and crime.
Yet Right is just as real as Wrong,
The mountain peak is real as the ooze,
A curse is no more real than a song;
Among realities we need but choose.
The cynic sees the failure of To-day,
The Prophet cries the triumph of To-morrow,
Knowing the spirit in our clogging clay
That masters doubt, disaster, loss and sorrow.
Failure is but a passing weariness,
There is no final answer but Success. — Berton Braley

If you surveyed a hundred typical middle-aged Americans, I bet you'd find that only two of them could tell you their blood types, but every last one of them would know the theme song from the Beverly Hillbillies. — Dave Barry

Hearing wulfen howl is ... well, it's horrible. The sound is glassy, hovering at the upper ranges of hearing, and it's full of paws on snow and running with the icy wind hitting the back of your throat like stares. Underneath the glassy edge is the song of flesh ripped apart, the sweetness of hot blood, and the savagery of crunching bones with sharp teeth.
The worst part is how it climbs into your brain, pressing itself like a hard sharpness into the soft folds, and drags open the doors socialization slams shut to keep the howling ravening thing down inside down and tame.
The thing on four clawed legs that lives in all of us. — Lilith Saintcrow

I'd never written a song before 'The Blood'; I didn't know it was going to be a song. — Andrae Crouch

The impulse to lie, to continue to wallow in secrets as he had for years, was only the faintest whisper now, a nagging sense of stepping too far on an uncharted path, easily overridden by need to tell her. If he couldn't tell her, at least he could find some comfort in confidence. — Anthony Ryan

I thought that you would be frozen in awe when you found the sequence, when you heard a bird's song repeating my Morse code, my cry for help, my S.O.S, when you saw the same numbers in the petals of a flower and the structure of a pine cone, when you saw with your own eyes the interconnectedness of all things.
But I was wrong.
You searched for a male god, a creator, an intelligent designer, or you banished the beauty and mystery of the world beneath the cold concrete grave of closed-eye skepticism. The few of you who could still hear my music felt tortured and misunderstood; you reached out for any conspiracy theory large enough to explain your alienated despair, your sense that the Earth was dying and no one cared.
But listen to me -- you are not alone. Run your fingers through the grass and grab it in your fists, feel my pulse echoing through your blood. You. Are. Not. Alone. And I -- I am not dead yet. — Sarah Warden

Tell me, do you really believe all this tripe you spout?" There was no venom in Nortah's tone, just vague curiosity. "We call each other brothers but we share no blood. We're just boys forced together by this Order. Don't you ever wonder what it would have been like if we had met on the outside? Would we have been friends then, or enemies? Our fathers were enemies, did you know that? — Anthony Ryan

JAMIE'S SONG 'LOVE TRANSFUSION':

I'm not sleeping nights,
I'm not doing good.
I'm not eating right,
have no use for food.

All I do is bleed dry for you.
But somehow I survive,
And wake up with more love for you.

It's not blood running through my veins, it's you.

I've had a strange blood transfusion,
To add to my confusion.
It's not compatible;
I'm going hysterical.
It's some kind of love transfusion.
Love transfusion.
Love transfusion.
I've had a strange blood transfusion.
Blood transfusion.
Blood transfusion.

It's not blood running through my veins, it's you. — Neha Yazmin

He could feel her gaze on his torso, knowing her eyes lingered on his scars, sensing her sorrows. "Nothing I didn't earn, sister", he told her, reaching out for his razor. "All of it, and more besides". — Anthony Ryan

Brothers of the Second Order searched her house and found evidence of Deniers activity. Forbidden books, images of gods, herbs and candles, the usual stuff. Turned out she and her father were followers of the Sun and the Moon, a minor sect. They're pretty harmless mostly since they don't try to convert others to their heresy, but a Denier's a Denier. — Anthony Ryan

And this, she saw, her dream had done. She had built against that fear a vision of power not wholly selfish - power to protect not only herself, but others. And that vision - however partial it had been in those days - was worth following. For it led not away from the fear, as a dream of rule might do, but back into it. The pattern of her life - as she saw it then, clear and far away and painted in bright colors - the pattern of her life was like an intricate song, or the way the Kuakgan talked of the grove's interlacing trees. There below were the dream's roots, tangled in fear and despair, nourished in the death of friends, the bones of the strong, the blood of the living, and there high above were the dream's images, bright in the sun like banners or the flowering trees of spring. And to be that banner, or that flowering branch, meant being nourished by the same fears: meant encompassing them, not rejecting them. — Elizabeth Moon

Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still trees, a poured the radiance over the hill. in the glow, the water of the chateau fountain seem to turn to blood, and the stone faces crimsond. the coral of the birds was loud and high, and, on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of monsieur the morquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. at this,the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open mouthand dropped under-jaw, looked awe- stricken. — Charles Dickens

That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space.
It was the Song of Eyllwe.
Then Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labour camps.
And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan.
When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage.
The next morning, by royal decree, the theatre was shut down.
No one saw those musicians or their conductor again. — Sarah J. Maas

An overconfident enemy is prone to carelessness. — Anthony Ryan

In time I came to realise my playmates were chosen for their dullness, their lack of guile or cunning. Friends with sharper minds would have sharpened my own thoughts, made me consider that this pleasant life of luxury and plenty was in reality nothing more than an ornate cage, and I a slave within it. — Anthony Ryan

It's called star silver because it glows brighter than the heavens when it's put to the flame (...) But it's not silver, it's a form of iron, rare iron that comes from the earth like all metals, there's nothing Dark about it. But it's this that makes swords of the Order stronger than others. With this, your blades will withstand blows that would shatter others and, if wielded with skill, will cut through mail and armour. — Anthony Ryan

Then all the winds of Heaven ran to join hands and bend a shoulder, to bring down to me the sound of a noble hymn that was heavy with the perfume of Time That Has Gone.
The glittering multitudes were singing most mightily, and my heart was in blood to hear a Voice that I knew.
The Men of the Valley were marching again.
My Fathers were singing up there.
Loud, triumphant, the anthem rose, and I knew, in some deep place within, that in the royal music was a prayer to lift up my spirit, to be of good cheer, to keep the faith, that Death was only an end to the things that are made of clay, and to fight, without heed of wounds, all that brings death to the Spirit, with Glory to the Eternal Father, forever, Amen. — Richard Llewellyn

She didn't like seeing it, Vaelin realised. Didn't like seeing the killer in me. — Anthony Ryan

I mean am I crazy or is it a little rude to answer your phone in the middle of a fucking song?
February 13, 2008. Milan Blood Ball — Jared Leto

But there were years when, in search of what I thought was better, nobler things I denied these, my people, and my family. I forgot the songs they sung - and most of those songs are now dead; I erased their dialect from my tongue; I was ashamed of them and their ways of life. But now - yes, I love them; they are a part of my blood; they, with all their virtues and their faults, played a great part in forming my way of looking at life. — Agnes Smedley

Nature has a voice (...) Learn to hear it and you'll never be lost and no man will ever take you unawares. — Anthony Ryan

Dear friends, have you begun to sing the "new song? " Loved ones are singing it in the heavenly home, and we may sing it here; and by and by we shall join them, gaze with them on the risen, glorified Lord, and our voices will mingle in the "new song" "unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. — Abbott Eliot Kittredge

She greeted him with a smile, holding her hand out for him to kiss (...) Nevertheless he went to one knee and pressed his lips against her knuckles. Her flesh was warmer than he'd expected and he angered himself for enjoying the sensation. — Anthony Ryan

Many words came to me than as I stood clutching my bleeding face, many bile-filled, loathsome words sure to cute her to the core with lacerating truth. But meeting her blazing eyes, I felt the words die in my breast, my anger shriveling and flying away on the seaborne wind, replaced by a depth of pity and regret I knew had always lurked in my soul. — Anthony Ryan

There were times when I consider simply taking the dagger and sinking it into his heart, I had ample opportunity after all, but I was still young and tough my hatred consumed me, I still lusted for life. I was a coward, a prisoner whose captivity was made worse by the knowledge of the vastness of his prison. Despair began to rot my heart. I fell to indulgence again, seeking escape in wine and drugs and flesh, an indulgence that would have seem me dead before long, had not the foreigners arrived. — Anthony Ryan

The masters painted for joy, and knew not that virtue had gone out of them. They could not paint the like in cold blood. The masters of English lyric wrote their songs so. It was a fine efflorescence of fine powers. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

He was knowledgeable and often frighteningly intelligent but he was also a dreamer. He had a mental library of a thousand stories and seemed to believe them all. Heroes, villains, princesses in need of rescue, monsters and magical swords. It all lived in his head, as vital and real as his own memories. — Anthony Ryan

Loyalty is our strength (...) Loyalty is another lie you use to trap the unwary in your designs. — Anthony Ryan

Sing me a pretty love song as I start to cry
Tell me you love me as you wipe the blood from my eye
Tell me why the only one who can wipe away my tears
Is the only one who's the source of all my fears — Rachel Lloyd

You are the blood of the dragon. You can make a hat. — George R R Martin

She sits on the iron throne
She is one and three
The dark lady
the redgold lady
The blank lady
oracle
of blood, she who must be
obeyed
forever
Her glass wings are gone
She floats down the river
singing her last song — Margaret Atwood

We were born between blood and gunpowder; and between blood and gunpowder we were raised. Every so often the powerful from other lands came to rob us of tomorrow. For this reason it was written in a war song that unites us: "If a foreigner with his step ever dares to profane your land, think, Oh beloved motherland, that heaven gave you a soldier in each son." For this reason we fought. With flags and different languages the foreigner came to conquer us. He came and he went. — Subcomandante Marcos

This policy cannot succeed through speeches, and shooting-matches, and songs; it can only be carried out through blood and iron. — Otto Von Bismarck

As you say," Tyrion grinned. "If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you'd have my vote for triarch, my lady."
"I am no lady," the widow replied, "just Vogarro's whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis." She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. "Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon. — George R R Martin

Yet in the blood of man there is a tide, an old sea-current rather, that is somehow akin to the twilight, which brings him rumours of beauty from however far away, as driftwood is found at sea from islands not yet discovered: and this spring-tide or current that visits the blood of man comes from the fabulous quarter of his lineage, from the legendary, the old; it takes him out to the woodlands, out to the hills; he listens to ancient song. — Lord Dunsany

Herlia, goddess of justice, weeping as she passes her first judgement (...) She fell in love with a mortal man, but his passion for her drove him to commit a terrible crime and so she judged him, consigning him to the depths of the earth, chained to a rock, where his flesh is eternally eaten by vermin (...) Indeed, he stole a magic sword and with it slew a god, thinking him a rival for her affections. In fact he was her brother, Ixtus, god of dreams. now, whenever we suffer nightmares it is the shade of the fallen god taking his revenge on mortal kind. — Anthony Ryan

For a moment he was lost in the scent and the closeness of her, the grief and self-loathing vanished by this new intimacy. He knew he should tell her to stop, that this was inappropriate, but found himself too intoxicated to care. — Anthony Ryan

There was a continual sense of something hovering out of reach, a profound conclusion even then blood-song couldn't divine. But can she? And if she can, could she be trusted with the knowledge? The idea of trusting her was absurd, of course. but even the untrustworthy could be useful. — Anthony Ryan

He was sitting in the midst of a children's party at Harold's Cross. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers, danced and romped noisily and, though he tried to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets.
But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a sothing air to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish agitation of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart. — James Joyce

They laughed together, for a long time. Pain receded and was forgotten. They laughed and never spoke about how much it hurt. — Anthony Ryan

Anthony Ryan is a new fantasy author destined to make his mark on the genre. His debut novel, Blood Song, certainly has it all: great coming of age tale, compelling character, and a fast-paced plot. If his first book is any indication of things to come, then all fantasy readers should rejoice as a new master storyteller has hit the scene. — Michael J. Sullivan

Liquor wasn't forbidden in the Order, but it was frowned upon by the more Faithful masters. Some said anything that dulled the senses was a barrier to the Faith, the less a man remembered of his life the less he had to take with him to the Beyond. — Anthony Ryan

Forward now. Forward to battle slaughter. Beware the man who loves battle. Ravn had told me that only one man in three or perhaps one man in four is a real warrior and the rest are reluctant fighters, but I was to learn that only one man in twenty is a lover of battle. Such men were the most dangerous, the most skillful, the ones who reaped the souls, and the ones to fear. I was such a one, and that day, beside the river where the blood flowed into the rising tide, and beside the burning boats, I let Serpent-Breath sing her song of death. I remember little except a rage, an exultation, a massacre. This was the moment the skalds celebrate, the heart of the battle that leads to victory, and the courage had gone from those Danes in a heartbeat. — Bernard Cornwell

The only aspect of his appearance to match his legend was his eyes: black as jet and piercing as a hawk's. They said his eyes could strip man's soul bare, that no secret could be hidden if he met your gaze. — Anthony Ryan

It smells of blood and honey, of sex and song. — Kelly Sandoval

I meant to write a song of battle, for storied deeds of war inspire; I seemed to hear the cannon thunder, I seemed to see the smoke and fire. But oh, the pathos of the ending when brave men conquered in the fight, knelt, kissing yielded blood-stained colors!
my eyes are blurred, I cannot write. — Anne Reeve Aldrich

Is this true on smaller scales too? Apart from a visible fragment is everybody largely invisible - invisible like the magic part of magic mushrooms and the song part of songbirds? Maybe the balance between one's visibility and invisibility is like the balance between the salt and the water in the blood, delicate and critical, as becomes obvious when the balance deteriorates: people with an invisibility deficiency seem like paper dolls, subject to crumple. Other people have the opposite problem: they cannot be seen building a bicycle, nor making lentil soup, nor knitting a green wool sweater by candlelight; neither can you look down from your second-story window in the morning and see them tromping off through the snow — Amy Leach

Well he could hate too, hate was easy, hate would fuel him if his mother's love could not. Loyalty is our strength. He snorted a silent laughed of derision. Let loyalty be your strength, Father. My hate for you will be mine. — Anthony Ryan

I have no need for riches, Highness. I can't be bought either. — Anthony Ryan

It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons. — Friedrich Schiller

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love. — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

There were tears in his eyes but he blinked them away. "I wish to learn many things". — Anthony Ryan

It's a bad place, brother. All ruins and bare rock. Only ever seen it from a distance and it gave me the frights. Something in the air (...) Just feels bad. The Lonak call it Maars Nir-Uhlin Sol, the Place of the Stolen Souls. — Anthony Ryan

Stand like a beaten anvil, when thy dream
Is laid upon thee, golden from the fire.
Flinch not, though heavily through that furnace-gleam
The black forge-hammers fall on thy desire.

Demoniac giants round thee seem to loom.
'Tis but the world-smiths heaving to and fro.
Stand like a beaten anvil. Take the doom
Their ponderous weapons deal thee, blow on blow.

Needful to truth as dew-fall to the flower
Is this wild wrath and this implacable scorn.
For every pang, new beauty, and new power,
Burning blood-red shall on thy heart be born.

Stand like a beaten anvil. Let earth's wrong
Beat on that iron and ring back in song. — Alfred Noyes

And god damit,
I can barely say your name,
So I'll try to write it,
And fill the pen with blood from the sink. — Pierce The Veil

The song is gone; the dance
is secret with the dancers in the earth,
the ritual useless, and the tribal story
lost in an alien tale.
Only the grass stands up
to mark the dancing-ring; the apple-gums
posture and mime a past corroboree,
murmur a broken chant.
The hunter is gone; the spear
is splintered underground; the painted bodies
a dream the world breathed sleeping and forgot.
The nomad feet are still.
Only the rider's heart
halts at a sightless shadow, an unsaid word
that fastens in the blood of the ancient curse,
the fear as old as Cain. — Judith A. Wright

In high school no guys wanted to be in a band with me unless I was going to play bass or play grindcore or be in a scream-o band, so it was fun to finally have that experience of having my songs backed by a drummer and a bassist who were just as excited about it as I was. — Weyes Blood

Freedom brought a change in my song, made it soar, seeking out wonders and novelty. — Anthony Ryan

Ghosts can haunt damned near anything. I have heard them in the breathy voice of a song and seen them between the covers of a book. They have hidden in trees so that their faces peer out of the bark, and hovered beneath the silver surface of water. They disguise themselves as cracks in concrete or come calling in a delirium of fever. On summer days they keep pace like the shadow of our shadow. They lurk in the breath of young girls who give us our first kiss. I've seen men who were haunted to the point of madness by things that never were and things that should have been. I've seen ghosts in the lines on a woman's face and heard them in the jangling of keys. The ghosts in fire freeze and the ghosts in ice burn. Some died long ago; some were never born. Some ride the blood in my veins until it reaches my brain. Sometimes I even mistake myself for one. Sometimes I am one. — Damien Echols

FURIES:
Over the beast doomed to the fire
this is the chant, scatter of wits,
frenzy and fear, hurting the heart,
song of the Furies
binding brain and blighting blood
in its stringless melody. — Aeschylus

They can hear lies, he realized. But not thoughts. He could hide things, he didn't have to lie. Silence could be his shield. — Anthony Ryan

They say that perhaps it is not by love, but by blood, that land is bought. They say that perhaps my people had to die to nourish this earth with their truth. Your people did not have ears to hear. Perhaps we had to return to the earth, so that we could grow within your hearts. Perhaps we have come back and will fill the hills and valleys with our song. Who is to know? — Kent Nerburn

A book's value rests in the knowledge it contains, and knowledge is ever a dangerous thing. — Anthony Ryan

Leadership is not learned by watching your brothers beat each other bloody. Nor is it learned by letting them fail their tests. — Anthony Ryan

When they began their ascent, Froi heard the beauty of the Priestking's voice across the land, and the song inside Froi that he refused to sing, ached to be let loose. What had frightened him most about Rafuel of Sebastabol was that his stories had made Froi's blood dance. They had given him a restlessness. A need to be elsewhere to search for a part of himself that was lost. But what he feared was that the search to find answers would take him away from this land of light. That once he left, he would never find his way back home. — Melina Marchetta

You always trade blood for joy. It's always a deal struck in the wet and the dark. Al didn't make the rules. He just dances to the song that's playing. — Catherynne M Valente

If you have come to these pages for laughter, may you find it.
If you are here to be offended, may your ire rise and your blood boil.
If you seek an adventure, may this song sing you away to blissful escape.
If you need to test or confirm your beliefs, may you reach comfortable conclusions.
All books reveal perfection, by what they are or what they are not.
May you find that which you seek, in these pages or outside them.
May you find perfection, and know it by name. — Christopher Moore

They are hung from the walls whilst still alive and left to starve to death. Their tongues are cut so their screams will not disturb passerby. This is done purely because they follow a different faith (...) I told you I had been all over this world. The are countless faiths, countless gods. There are more ways to honour the divine than there are stars in the sky. — Anthony Ryan

He lay awake, restless, heart thumping so hard with alternating hatred and anger that he wondered if it would burst through his ribs. Panic made it beat even faster, sweat beaded his forehead and bathed his chest. — Anthony Ryan