Montreuil Sur Quotes & Sayings

I named you, Spook. You were named my friend.
Isn't that enough?"
... "No — Brandon Sanderson

Undeserved forgiveness. Friendship defined. — Robin Hobb

In the modern world, those whom we effectively hate are distant groups, especially foreign nations. We conceive them abstractly, and deceive ourselves into the belief that acts which are really embodiments of hatred are done from love or justice or some lofty motive. Only a large measure of skepticism can tear away the veils which hide this truth from us. — Bertrand Russell

You're no longer possibly mine. You're not even my sure thing," she whispered. "You're my everything. — Melissa Foster

Don't give me some stupid lecture about war when the person we're talking about losing is you!" I said, surprised by the savagery in my tone. At least my voice didn't shake.
His face blurred and I tasted salt on my lips. It was warm, warm like Pritkin's hands coming up and framing my face, his thumbs brushing over my eyelids, soft as his fingers in my hair. "One person is not so important in the scheme of things", he said, and his voice was gentle, gentle when it never was, and that almost broke me.
But you are important, I thought. And yet he couldn't see that. In Pritkin's mind, he was an experiment gone wrong, a child cast out, a man valued by his peers only for his ability to kill the things they feared. Just once, I wished he could see what I did.
"Then neither is this", I said, leaning in and pressing my mouth to his, the kiss lightened by desperation and weighted down by everything he meant to me. — Karen Chance

Find what causes a commotion in your heart. Find a way to write about that — Richard Ford

I miss that world from the safe distance of memory. — Maureen Corrigan

I just don't want to let go of you tonight. So sue me. — Kahlen Aymes

Before the start of the 2000 season, 'C.S.I.' wasn't supposed to be the hit. We all thought it would be 'The Fugitive.' — Leslie Moonves

Perceptions are always profound, associations deceiving. No watermelon tastes red. Apropos: while waiting for a bus once, I saw open down the arm of a midfat, midlife, freckled woman, suitcase tugging at her hand like a small boy needing to pee, a deep blue crack as wide as any in a Roquefort. Split like paper tearing. She said nothing. Stood. Blue bubbled up in the opening like tar. One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup. — William H Gass