#hive

his yellow eyes gazed at me possessively -- I wondered if he realized that the way he looked at me was far more intimate than copping a feel could ever be. ↗

— Maggie Stiefvater

#love #romance #shiver #love

For a second, he was still, blinking. Then he shook off all the blankets and coats so that his arms were free and he wrapped them around me as tightly as he could. I felt him shuddering, shuddering against me as he buried his face in my hair. I said, uselessly, "Sam, don't go." Sam cupped my face in his hands and looked me in the eyes. His eyes were yellow, sad, wolf, mine. "These stay the same. Remember that when you look at me. Remember it's me. Please."" — Grace and Sam (Shiver) ↗

— Maggie Stiefvater

#sam

If you want to gather honey, don't kick over the beehive. ↗

— Dale Carnegie

#gather #honey #kick #over #want

If you are working 50 hours a week in a factory, you don't have time to read 10 newspapers a day and go back to declassified government archives. But such people may have far-reaching insights into the way the world works. ↗

— Noam Chomsky

#back #day #factory #far-reaching #go

You've never seen death? Look in the mirror every day and you will see it like bees working in a glass hive. ↗

— Jean Cocteau

#day #death #every #every day #glass

When you hear buzz around the beehive, you know they're making honey in there. ↗

— Terrence Howard

#beehive #buzz #hear #honey #know

The Carnegie Foundation is well aware of the fact that their reports frequently find their way to dusty archives in academic institutions, but occasionally people pick up a segment of a report and act upon it. ↗

— C. Everett Koop

#act #archives #aware #carnegie #dusty

Yet I never sought what is real, yearned for the real, but rather I have yearned for dreams more than solid things. I can say I love the textures of dreams. The way they hover and almost taste. The clouds and darkness that linger behind, mostly unseen. And the palette of dreams. You can almost taste the colours, they seem as words on the tip of the tongue, unsayable as pomegranate seeds, unsayable as thick cream, the darkness of such a thick cream. This is why I am obsessed with dreams. They know what we cannot. Night after night they try and tell us the impossible. Dreams are secret and closed, and also contain everything, gushing, splayed open. Dream suitcases, carpetbags, hold-alls. They influence us secretly and they draw me to travel to nowhere, to beauty’s passage, through halls of mirrors where I know I am not myself, I know I am sublime. ↗

— Shawna Lemay

#hive-a-forgery #beauty

Her eyes on my eyes. I was tearing apart, inside and outside. Her life. My life. ↗

— Maggie Stiefvater

#life

Although she was a logical, practical person, she believed that in books there existed a kind of magic. Between the aging covers on these shelves, contained in tiny, abstract black marks on sheets of paper, were voices from the past. Voices that reached into the future, into Claire's own heart and mind, to tell her what they knew, what they'd learned, what they'd seen, what they'd felt. Wasn't that magic? ↗

— Christi Phillips

#magic #old-books #voices #age