#highlight

Like all strong people, she suffered always a measure of loneliness; she was a marginal outsider, a secret infidel of a certain sort. ↗

— Anne Rice

#loneliness

All stories are true,” Skarpi said. “But this one really happened, if that’s what you mean.” He took another slow drink, then smiled again, his bright eyes dancing. “More or less. You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way. Too much truth confuses the facts. Too much honesty makes you sound insincere. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

#kindlehighlight

Brick walls are there for a reason. They give us a chance to show how badly we want ↗

— Randy Pausch

#kindlehighlight

He hadn’t been peeping intentionally; he’d been trying to sneak into my room. So that was slightly less creepy, I supposed. ↗

— Amanda Hocking

#kindlehighlight

How about you, Mockingjay? You feel totally safe?” “Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot,” I say. ↗

— Suzanne Collins

#kindlehighlight

I’d heard he had started a fistfight in one of the seedier local taverns because someone had insisted on saying the word “utilize” instead of “use. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

#kindlehighlight

In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. ↗

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

#kindlehighlight

Sir, this lane is for ten items or less. I’m counting thirteen items in your cart, including that hemorrhoid cream. And while hemorrhoids might give you a reason to be nasty, they don’t give you a reason to be in this lane. ↗

— J.A. Konrath

#kindlehighlight

What do you know of poetry?” Ambrose said without bothering to turn around. “I know a limping verse when I hear it,” I said. “But this isn’t even limping. A limp has rhythm. This is more like someone falling down a set of stairs. Uneven stairs. With a midden at the bottom.” “It is a sprung rhythm,” he said, his voice stiff and offended. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” “Sprung?” I burst out with an incredulous laugh. “I understand that if I saw a horse with a leg this badly ‘sprung,’ I’d kill it out of mercy, then burn its poor corpse for fear the local dogs might gnaw on it and die. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

#kindlehighlight

But Marisa already knew the answer and it was too late for recrimination. The chance of even a rational discussion of the problem was forever shut out of Mama’s brain. A brutal bastard was steadily sucking the intelligence and the very life from the mother who had once been witty, wise and loving. The scourge had a name Marisa had come to equate with hell: Alzheimer’s Disease. ↗

— Anna Jeffrey

#intelligence