The Hidden Girl Quotes & Sayings

The knowingness of little girls, is hidden underneath their curls. — Phyllis McGinley

Pressed up against the rear wall, half hidden by shirts and dresses dangling from hangers, was a tall, thin girl with wide, terrified eyes. Her hands were wrapped around the muzzle of a small, wildly squirming dog. — Jeanne DuPrau

You in the back," said the principal. "Don't think you can hide. Tell me. What would you like to be?"
"Dangerous," said the hidden girl, without a second's hesitation. — Kirsten Miller

A Wyvern's body is different from the body of a young girl in several major respects. First, it has wings, which most young girls do not (there are exceptions). Second, it has a very long, thick tail, which some young girls may have, but those who find themselves so lucky keep them well hidden. Let us just say, there is a reason some ladies wore bustles in times gone by! Third, it weighs about as much as a tugboat carrying several horses and at least one boulder. There are girls who weigh that much, but as a rule, they are likely to be frost giants. Do not trouble such folk with asking after the time or why their shoes do not fit so well. — Catherynne M Valente

If you're going to decipher a hidden code from a complex set of different mazes, I'm pretty sure you need a girl's brain running the show. — James Dashner

Next, the cranky priest was waiting for Emily when she returned home and demanded to hear her confession. Funnily, she omitted her great sex life and just listed cursing and disobeying her parents and asked for any other sins to be forgiven. The priest was a wise old owl and had a long chat with her afterwards. He had worked himself up into a fury and talked about immoral sex. He warned her that once a girl got a bad name her reputation was gone for ever and she was on a slippery slope to pregnancy and been hidden away in the Magdalene Laundries for the rest of her life.
— Annette J. Dunlea

Had someone crept up to the cottage with the sunken thatched roof that night, had they peered through the slits in the shutters, they would have seen in the dimly lit interior a grey-bearded old man and an ashen-haired girl sitting by the fireplace. They would have noticed that the two of them were staring silently into the glowing, ruby coals. But no one could have seen it. For the cottage with the sunken, moss-grown thatched roof was well hidden among the fog and the mist, in a boundless swamp in the Pereplut Marshes where no one dared to venture. — Andrzej Sapkowski

But the girl had spent long years being invisible. She'd already had a ghost's life, hidden from the world and from herself. Better than anyone, she knew the power of things long buried. — Leigh Bardugo

She walked down the basement steps. She saw an imaginary framed photo seep into the wall - a quiet-smiled secret. No more than a few meters, it was a long walk to the drop sheets and the assortment of paint cans that shielded Max Vandenburg. She removed the sheets closest to the wall until there was a small corridor to look through. The first part of him she saw was his shoulder, and through the slender gap, she slowly, painfully, inched her hand in until it rested there. His clothing was cool. He did not wake.
She could feel his breathing and his shoulder moving up and down ever so slightly. For a while, she watched him. Then she sat and leaned back.
Sleepy air seemed to have followed her.
The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder.
They breathed.
German and Jewish lungs. — Markus Zusak

I have many friends who are married - not many who are happily married, but many married friends. The few happy ones are like my parents: They're baffled by my singleness. A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasms, a cool job, a loving family. And let's say it: money. They knit their eyebrows and pretend to think of men they can set me up with, but we all know there's no one left, no one good left, and I know that they secretly think there's something wrong with me, something hidden away that makes me unsatisfiable, unsatisfying. — Gillian Flynn

derelict. my voice cracked and yolk poured out. wind chimes rigid, no breeze, no song. my wings found hidden in your suitcase. pleas for help mistaken for a swan song. i'm stuffing pages from my journal down my throat as kindling. hoping the smoke will get the taste of you out of my mouth. he looks at me from across the room and all i want is to push him against the wall. ravage. ravage. carnage has never been more vogue. is it still art if it doesn't bring you to your knees? lover, let me prey at your altar. let me bare my fangs in praise. don't i look so pretty in a funeral shroud? i keep time with the click of my creaking bones. dance with me under the milky translucence of a world suffocating. how did you find me? i buried myself beneath the cicadas. is a girl trapped in glass still a prize?
let me get under your skin. i want to know what your fears taste like. i want to consume. — Taylor Rhodes

The children of the Fulcrum are all different: different ages, different colors, different shapes. Some speak Sanze-mat with different accents, having originated from different parts of the world. One girl has sharp teeth because it is her race's custom to file them; another boy has no penis, though he stuffs a sock into his underwear after every shower; another girl has rarely had regular meals and wolfs down every one like she's still starving. (The instructors keep finding food hidden in and around her bed. They make her eat it, all of it, in front of them, even if it makes her sick.) One cannot reasonably expect sameness out of so much difference, and it makes no sense for Damaya to be judged by the behavior of children who share nothing save the curse of orogeny with her. — N.K. Jemisin

Mira moved into the light like a sleepwalker, leaving Blue behind in the dust, the unused room, the past.
She thought of the fabled hundred years that cursed girls like her had slept, and how, after that much time, everything would be covered by a thick blanket of dust, including the princess. The intrepid prince would have to trust that something beautiful was hidden underneath. He'd kiss her and the first color to be revealed would be the chapped pink of her lips.
Her eyes went to Freddie, playing his guitar and lit by the sun. She couldn't picture him kissing a girl coated by dust - he was too alive for that.
He was golden. And she ... she was covered with death, with her grief over her parents. She'd tried to replace them with dreams, and she'd drifted through life in a haze, her eyes seeking ghosts instead of the world around her.
She was already asleep.
She had been for a long time. — Sarah Cross

Can you play the piano like Beethoven? Or sing like Carly Simon? Can you take fie pages' worth of quotes and turn them into a usable story ten minutes before deadline? I don't think so, unless you have more hidden talents I don't know about. We all have our special sills. They don't make us better or worse than each other. Just different — Jennifer Estep

Celebrity poverty, that's the hidden scandal in Blair's Britain. You can't help but worry for them. A girl I knew developed X-ray eyes for celebrity sorrows. She taught me to read the subtext of the down-market celebrity interview, she knew all the Hollywood codes, and followed the deep backgrounds. — Peter York

Sometimes I get this gut feeling about people - maybe I sense a hidden agenda or that they care for the money more than the message. I wish that I'd listen to that feeling instead of waiting for the truth to rear its ugly head. I'm a smart girl. I'm loyal. But sometimes I'm too loyal. I'm not loyal enough to myself. — Lady Gaga

His barely there smile warmed me. "You try really hard to hide behind that Ice Queen disguise, but that's not who I see. I see a girl who had to grow up fast, and a mom who would sacrifice everything for her son. You're beautiful, Taryn, inside and out, and I want to get to know the woman you keep hidden away." He lowered his hand and my body ached at the loss. "If you're willing, I'll walk through the fire with you. — Lisa Kessler

That's what this has been all about for you, correct? Make it clear. That you and me
it was nothing more that you'll have with Spinnerbait boy, or the guy after that, or the guy after that. Right?"
"Yeah, I said, shrugging. "You're right."
He just stood there, looking at me, as if I had actually changed before his eyes. But this was the girl I'd been all along. I'd just hidden her well. — Sarah Dessen

I just want to kind of tackle every kind of form that exists in the comedy world; whether it be stand-up or hidden camera or parody. Kind of slap it in a movie with hip-hop artists and actors, comedians and girls. I just want to do something fun. — Pauly Shore

Make no mistake, this woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night. She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on a man's first night in Molching. And she was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl. — Markus Zusak

Known is Nothing, Unknown is Everything; This is Half Hidden World.
We know only a little about ourselves, even ourselves. So blind are we that more often than not we never know what we're going to do next, Love or Hate. Like what we are for ourselves, a part of our soul mates, our boy and girl friends, also remains Unknown to Us, quite naturally, despite living together under the same roof, eating together, sleeping together....And that hidden part makes us ex-things to others. — Jamaluddin Jamali

A moment later the boy whispered, "I don't think you're ugly."
"Shhhh!" the girl hissed. But hidden by the deep shadows of the cupboard, she smiled — Leigh Bardugo

Each one, in my impassioned interior conversations, granted me some aspect of my most dearly held, most fiercely hidden heart's desires. Life, art, motherhood. Love and the great seductive promise that I wasn't nothing. That I could be seen for my unvarnished self, and that this hidden self, this precious girl without a mask, unseen for decades, could, that indeed she must, leave a trace upon the world. — Claire Messud

technically, her last disaster hadn't been her fault she knew another accident would get her fired. Her brief was to be invisible, and she considered herself perfectly qualified for the job. In a world where extroverts were celebrated, she was an introvert. She'd spent most of her life blending into the background. First in the playground, where she'd hidden away in books written by other people, and then at college, when she'd hidden in the books she'd written herself. Lost in her own fictional world, she became each and every one of her heroines and endowed them with qualities she herself coveted, namely courage, communication skills and coordination. Her current creation was Lara Striker, small-town girl finally returning home and trying to live down her badgirl reputation. Matilda stared through the crowd, her mind — Sarah Morgan

A smile is hidden beneath the mustache, it crinkles the corners of his hooded eyes. "I didn't. I have other business in town and I told my friend I would attend to the matter of his son, as he could not do so himself."
"Very kind of you."
"Yes. I have been looking forward to it for quite some time."
Daddy's lemonade is almost gone, he sips it carefully, turning his eyes back to the water. "Looking forward to seeing the lad or to conducting your business?" Daddy is toying with him.
"Both. You see, I had never actually met his son." The glass rests against Daddy's lips, unmoving. Mr. Geyer watches him closely. "But now I have, so I can get on with my," he fixes his own gaze on the water, as though trying to see whatever it is that has transfixed my father, "business. — Gwenn Wright

She made a visual inventory of the disaster and confirmed that the girl was curled up like a snail, her head hidden between her arms: terrified but intact. "My God!" Rosa Cabarcas exclaimed. "What I wouldn't have given for a love like this! — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

My grandmother lived a remarkable life. She watched her nation fall to pieces; and even when she became collateral damage, she believed in the power of the human spirit. She gave when she had nothing; she fought when she could barely stand; she clung to tomorrow when she couldn't find footing on the rock ledge of yesterday. She was a chameleon, slipping into the personae of a privileged young girl, a frightened teen, a dreamy novelist, a proud prisoner, an army wife, a mother hen. She became whomever she needed to be to survive, but she never let anyone else define her.
By anyone's account, her existence had been full, rich, important - even if she chose not to shout about her past, but rather to keep it hidden. It had been nobody's business but her own; it was still nobody's business. — Jodi Picoult

Morfyd's care.
As she walked out of the cave she passed Annwyl walking in. The girl had her swords in one hand. The other hand held her ripped shirt and bindings over her ample breasts. Her brows angled down into a dark frown and she wouldn't even look at Morfyd as she passed.
"How did that talk go then?" Morfyd called over her shoulder.
"Shut. Up."
Morfyd laughed as she advanced into the glen toward the clearing where she could take off. She rounded a corner and came upon her brother, his chainmail shirt and sword in his big hand, heading toward the hidden entrance of his cave. She watched him as he passed and she noticed the long scratches across his back.
"How did that talk go then?" Morfyd called over her shoulder.
"Shut. Up."
Morfyd shook her head. If love always made you this pathetic, she wanted nothing to do with it. — G.A. Aiken

Autumn comes
like a buyer of cloth,
her long fingers
touching,
turning orange,
yellow, brown.

taking what she wants,
stretching
the bone taut air.

Her skin crackles beneath
our feet.

I didn't think anyone wanted me,

bruises pulled
like a sweater around
my neck.

We talk
in the pore tightening air,
branches bare,
about the girl buried in the chill
of prewinter.

We show each other
our mutilated children
in the guise of women
as autumn plucks
at our lips.

Each color,
blue, black, ochre
popping like kisses
on the rib lined flesh,
the puberty soft things.

And we muse
how women
keep bruises
hidden
beneath dead
leaves. — Janice Mirikitani

I had grown into a worrier, a girl on constant guard for catastrophes large and small, for the disappointments I now sensed were hidden all around us right in plain sight. — Karen Thompson Walker

Seventeen times against the wall or in the barn: You move or scream or say anything I will kill them all. In front of you. First I will torture them and then I will kill them. Her eyes as dead as she can make them. Her arms as limp as she can make them. Her heart as hidden as she can make it. A soldier's cock entering the thin white flesh of a girl, into the small red cave of her, the fist of her heart pounding out be-dead, be-dead, be-dead.
Counting. — Lidia Yuknavitch

The little girl's sense of secrecy that developed at prepuberty only grows in importance. She closes herself up in fierce solitude: she refuses to reveal to those around her the hidden self that she considers to be her real self and that is in fact an imaginary character: she plays at being a dancer like Tolstoy's Natasha, or a saint like Marie Leneru, or simply the singular wonder that is herself. There is still an enormous difference between this heroine and the objective face that her parents and friends recognise in her. She is also convinced that she is misunderstood: her relationship with herself becomes even more passionate: she becomes intoxicated with her isolation, feels different, superior, exceptional: she promises that the future will take revenge on the mediocrity of her present life. From this narrow and petty existence she escapes by dreams. — Simone De Beauvoir

Are you afraid in there?" she said softly, as the men called out for them.
"No," he said. "I'm not afraid. You lock me in. They won't get me."
She closed the door on the little white face, turned the key in the lock. Then she slipped the key into her pocket. The lock was hidden by a pivoting device shaped like a light switch. It was impossible to see the outline of the cupboard in the paneling of the wall. Yes, he'd be safe there. She was sure of it.
The girl murmured his name and laid her palm flat on the wooden panel.
"I'll come back for you later. I promise. — Tatiana De Rosnay

I just want to be entertained. The stories that have aged the best are the ones where the wolf eats grandma, or the woman is going to bake children in an oven, or the bear is going to eat the girl for eating the porridge. There are lessons in there, but they're deeply engrained and hidden. — Drew Daywalt

Like the teachers at the Duke's estate, the priest thought he knew the girl and what she was capable of. He was wrong. He did not hear their hidden language, did not understand the boy's resolve. He did not see the moment the girl ceased to bear her weakness as a burden and began to wear it as a guise. — Leigh Bardugo

The girl was very pretty and her body was like a clear mountain river of skin and muscle flowing over rocks of bone and hidden nerves. — Richard Brautigan

Why are women so fearful? The answer to that question lies at the root of The Cinderella Complex. (...) Many women achieve a certain amount of success in their careers and professions and still remain inwardly insecure. In fact (...), it's remarkable how many women these days retain a hidden core of self doubt while performing on the outside as if they were towers of confidence. (...)
Lack of confidence seems to follow us from childhood (...) No matter how fiercely we try to live like adults - flexible, powerful and free - that girl-child hangs on (...). The effects of such insecurity are widespread, and they result in a disturbing social phenomenon: women in general tend to function well below the level of their native abilities. For reasons that are both cultural and psychological - a system that doesn't really expect a great deal from us, in combination with our own personal fears of standing up and facing the world - women are keeping themselves down. — Colette Dowling

The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro - closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer - when the heavy bell of St. Paul's tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night-cellar,* the jail, the madhouse: the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all. — Charles Dickens

You're not alone anymore. You have me.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I had been alone for so long with my questions and theories and anger
and now this beautiful, fantastic girl was saying she believed me.
When she closed her eyes and kissed me, I finally let go of myself. Everything I had held in before, didn't have to be hidden anymore
not from Cassie. My eyes drifted shut as she kissed me harder, her arm winding around my shoulders to pull me close.
Without having to say anything more, I just knew now
maybe I always had
Cassie was the answer. — Melanie Cusick-Jones

This was their favorite place to meet. It always felt hidden, forgotten. The gold-lettered World Book encyclopedias from the 1980s. The smell of old glue and crumbling paper, the industrial carpet burning her palms.
It reminded her of what you did when you were a little girl, making little burrows and hideaways. Like boys did with forts. Eli and his friend, stacking sofa cushions, pretending to be sharpshooters. With girls, you didn't call them forts, though it was the same. — Megan Abbott

I found a girl who wasn't the girl I was looking for. I let go of a friend I'll still miss every day. I'll go back to work. I'll get better. I'll get better slowly. I'll find all the secret, hidden things. — Monica Hesse

Crouched beside the girl, the boy turned to her and whispered, "Why don't you eat?" "Because everything she cooks tastes like mud." "Tastes fine to me." "You'll eat anything." They bent their ears back to the crack in the cupboard doors. A moment later the boy whispered, "I don't think you're ugly." "Shhhh!" the girl hissed. But hidden by the deep shadows of the cupboard, she smiled. IN — Leigh Bardugo

I emitted an ultrasonic signal. The beast climbed off her and scampered to my side. "Good girl, Snarg." I patted her between the antennae, and she squeaked. Zala stood. "By the hidden moon, what is that?" "My pet ultrapede." "I wouldn't expect you to have a pet." "Snarg was a gift of the ambassador of the Undersphere. She's the fiercest ultrapede ever bred for the royal family. How could I turn down a gift like that? — A. Lee Martinez

The saddest thing I have ever experienced is watching a fellow nerd I've known forever and befriended, trying to unnerdify themselves. It was painful because that great geeky personality I loved so much is hidden behind a plaster of trends, and he may end up with a girl who will never understand him. — Melanie Kay Taylor

Shocked?" Juliet queried, the light pink tint on her cheeks the only telling sign of her discomfort with the conversation.
He nodded. "Yes. I had no idea my little girl knew what fluffies were."
Juliet opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by more misguided innocence from Kate. "They're the fluffy things Juliet keeps hidden in her dress here and here," she said proudly, tapping her chest to indicate just where these fluffy objects were located.
Patrick blinked. "That's quite enough, Katie love. Why don't you go paint some flowers or something. I need to have a word alone with Juliet. — Rose Gordon

Why do charming girls all have fathers? She can be hidden away all by herself in one's heart to cuddle, but when her father, uncle, and brother are dragged along with her, the girl stops being so cute and carefree and it's not so easy to conceal her away in your heart anymore. Her charm has been mixed in with the dregs. Some people talk about marriage as though it were homosexual love. It's not the girl they fancy, but her old man or her elder brother they admire. — Qian Zhongshu

The sleep that flits on baby's eyes - does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps - does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning - the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs - does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love - the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. — Rabindranath Tagore

Does he even see us?" she whispered.
As she spoke, the bear slowly tipped his big, furry head back, lazily studying Amy and Matt from his upside down perch.
Yeah, he saw them. Reacting instinctively, she turned and burrowed right into Matt. "If you laugh at me," she warned as his warm, strong arms closed around her. "I'll kill you."
He didn't laugh or mock her. For once, he was unsmiling, his jaw dark with stubble, eyes hidden behind his reflective Oakleys. "No worries, Tough Girl," he said, his warm, strong arms closing around her. "And anyway, I'm hard to kill. — Jill Shalvis

The tale of the Monkey Girl gave me wat I needed most at a critical time in my life: the image of the creative and complex woman, unique to herself but willing to share those considerable gifts with a man capable of intuiting the wealth of her worth hidden beneath the skin. But more than that, the Monkey Girl also suggested that I need not be afraid of the fragile happily-ever-after, that I had resources of my own, and that I would not have to contort myself into a restrictive social role for fear of losing that fairytale ending. — Midori Snyder

I turned in my seat. Will's face was in shadow and I couldn't quite make it out.
'Just hold on. Just for a minute.'
'Are you all right?' I found my gaze dropping towards his chair, afraid some part of him was pinched, or trapped, that I had got something wrong.
'I'm fine. I just . . . '
I could see his pale collar, his dark suit jacket a contrast against it.
'I don't want to go in just yet. I just want to sit and not have to think about . . . ' He swallowed.
Even in the half-dark it seemed effortful.
'I just . . . want to be a man who has been to a concert with a girl in a red dress. Just for a few minutes more.'
I released the door handle.
'Sure.'
I closed my eyes and lay my head against the headrest, and we sat there together for a while longer, two people lost in remembered music, half hidden in the shadow of a castle on a moonlit hill. — Jojo Moyes

Under this swarm of waspish self-inquiries he began to feel sorry for himself - a brilliant man trapped, a Byron tamed; and his mind wandered back to Sarah, to visual images, attempts to recollect that face, that mouth, that generous mouth. Undoubtedly it awoke some memory in him, too tenuous, perhaps too general, to trace to any source in his past; but it unsettled him and haunted him, by calling to some hidden self he hardly knew existed. He said it to himself: It is the stupidest thing, but that girl attracts me. It seemed clear to him that it was not Sarah in herself who attracted him - how could she, he was betrothed - but some emotion, some possibility she symbolized. She made him aware of a deprivation. His future had always seemed to him of vast potential; and now suddenly it was a fixed voyage to a known place. She had reminded him of that. — John Fowles