Louise Fitzhugh

  • Jul. 25th, 2016 at 7:31 PM
beth_shulman: (book: meg powers)
"I have thought a lot about being things since trying to be an onion," Harriet writes in her notebook. "I have tried to be a bench in the park, an old sweater, a cat, and my mug in the bathroom. I think I did the mug best because when I was looking at it I felt it looking back at me and I felt like we were two mugs looking at each other. I wonder if grass talks."

Frances Hodgson Burnett

  • Apr. 3rd, 2014 at 2:25 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"

"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine..."

E. L. Konigsburg

  • Dec. 25th, 2013 at 1:55 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
I think you should learn, of course, and some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything...

Patricia McKillip

  • Oct. 16th, 2013 at 11:54 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
The thought held him still, wondering. Slowly he became aware of the silence that built moment by moment between his question and the answer to it.

He stopped breathing, listening to the silence that haunted him oddly, like a memory of something he had once cherished.

Ursula K. le Guin

  • Jul. 11th, 2013 at 10:09 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel—or have done and thought and felt; or might do and think and feel—is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become. A person who had never known another human being could not be introspective, any more than a terrier can, or a horse; he might (improbably) keep himself alive, but he could not know anything about himself, no matter how long he lived with himself. And a person who had never listened to nor read a tale or myth or parable or story, would remain ignorant of his own emotional and spiritual heights and depths, would not know quite fully what it is to be human. For the story—from Rumpelstiltskin to War and Peace—is one of the basic tools invented by the mind of man, for the purpose of gaining understanding. There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories.

(The Language of the Night)

Robert A. Heinlein

  • Jul. 10th, 2013 at 11:06 PM
beth_shulman: (book: meg powers)
Certainly the game is rigged. Don't let that stop you; if you don't bet you can't win.

A. A. Milne

  • Jul. 2nd, 2013 at 1:04 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

Jonathan Safran Foer

  • Jun. 9th, 2013 at 5:23 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: black and white tree scene)
Everything is the way it is because everything was the way it was. Sometimes I feel ensnared in this, as if no matter what I do, what will come has already been fixed.

(Everything is Illuminated)

Deborah Wiles

  • May. 6th, 2013 at 12:08 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
It is hard to see inside someone's heart unless you have an invitation, and, even then, you must agree to come inside.

Sue Monk Kidd

  • Apr. 30th, 2013 at 12:50 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
Knowing can be a curse on a person's life. I'd traded in a pack of lies for a pack of truth, and I didn't know which one was heavier. Which one took the most strength to carry around? It was a ridiculous question, though, because once you know the truth, you can't ever go back and pick up your suitcase of lies. Heavier or not, the truth is yours now.

(The Secret Life of Bees)

William Faulkner

  • Feb. 2nd, 2013 at 8:18 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: boat in sunset)
It would be three hours yet before he would learn why she had sent for him because this part of it, this first part of it, Quentin already knew. It was a part of his twenty years' heritage of breathing the same air and hearing his father talk about the man; a part of the town's-Jefferson's-eighty years' heritage of the same air which the man himself had breathed between this September afternoon in 1909 and that Sunday morning in June in 1833 when he first rode into town out of no discernible past and acquired his land no one knew how and built his house, his mansion, apparently out of nothing and married Ellen Coldfield and begot his two children - the son who widowed the daughter who had not yet been a bride - and so accomplished his allotted course to its violent (Miss Coldfield at least would have said, just) end. Quentin had grown up with that; the mere names were interchangeable and almost myriad. His childhood was full of them; his very body was an empty hall echoing with sonorous defeated names; he was not a being, an entity, he was a commonwealth. He was a barracks filled with stubborn back-looking ghosts still recovering, even forty-three years afterward, from the fever which had cured the disease, waking from the fever without even knowing that it had been the fever itself which they had fought against and not the sickness, looking with stubborn recalcitrance backward beyond the fever and into the disease with actual regret, weak from the fever yet free of the disease and not even aware that the freedom was that of impotence.

(Absalom, Absalom)

William Alexander

  • Nov. 24th, 2012 at 5:30 PM
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Our selves are rough and unrehearsed tales we tell the world.

Elizabeth Wein

  • Nov. 18th, 2012 at 11:48 PM
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With her words in my mind while I'm reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She's right there. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting. Flying in silver moonlight in a plane that can't be landed, stuck in the climb - alive, alive, ALIVE.

(Code Name Verity)

John Steinbeck

  • Nov. 9th, 2012 at 1:12 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: black and white tree scene)
A great and lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting—only the deeply personal and familiar.

Ernest Heminway

  • Nov. 3rd, 2012 at 9:36 PM
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If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.

(A Moveable Feast)

Kurt Vonnegut

  • Oct. 21st, 2012 at 1:16 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: black and white tree scene)
Many people need desperately to receive this message: "I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone."

Melina Marchetta

  • Oct. 12th, 2012 at 4:02 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Somehow, even in the worst of times, the tiniest fragments of good survive. It was the grip in which one held those fragments that counted.

Lemony Snicket

  • Oct. 4th, 2012 at 7:33 PM
beth_shulman: (book: meg powers)
I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled.

...I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area.

...I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and now matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.

(The Beatrice Letters)

Shannon Hale

  • Oct. 3rd, 2012 at 1:29 AM
beth_shulman: (Default)
If we don't tell strange stories, when something strange happens we won't believe it.

Frances Hardinge

  • Sep. 30th, 2012 at 1:02 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
It was a joke, but centuries of distrust and fear lay behind it.

Soon somebody would say something that was sharper and harder, but it would still be a joke. And then there would be a remark like a punch in the gut, but made as a joke. And then they would detain her if she tried to leave, and nobody would stop them because it was all only a joke…


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