Erika Swyler Quotes

She takes a breath and holds it. In middle school the girls used to have contests to see who could hold their breath the longest; Alice once held it until she fainted.

There are harsher things I could say, things I've compiled and archived, each with a catalog card.

I saw that book in the lot and I needed a better look at it. I overbid terribly, but I needed to be certain I had it. Purely speculation, of course - nobody was allowed to get a good close look before bidding - but I thought there was a chance it was my book. The way Treasure Island is Marie's. But the moment I touched it I knew it wasn't mine. I knew it wasn't for selling, either, not at Churchwarry and Son. I can't explain it other than to say that it was begging to be given away.

His words are heavy with rare things: care and possibility.

A librarian remembers the particular scent of glue and dust, and if we're so lucky - and I was - the smell of parchment, a quiet tanginess, softer than wood pulp or cotton rag. We would bury ourselves in books until flesh and paper became one and ink and blood at last ran together.

Nothing made you angry like missing someone.

Amos did not listen; he was desperately tired of listening; he wished to speak.

We carry our families like anchors, rooting us in storms, making sure we never drift from where and who we are. We carry our families within us the way we carry our breath underwater, keeping us afloat, keeping us alive.

Why the hell don't people understand there are some things you don't talk about? You keep it to yourself so you hurt fewer people. You're supposed to pay with guilt. Guilt is penance.

We were all bidding on pure speculation.

noon. Having all the time in the world makes getting things done impossible. I've earned a rest; I've worked without breaks since

When Amos sat up, Peabody pounded him on the back until he coughed out water. "I have fed you, clothed you, given you all I ever possessed. And you would walk away from me." A

When customers asked why Betheen's baking was better than anyone else's, she forced herself to blush and say her kitchen was downwind from Prater Grove; everything had a little orange blossom in it. She did not say, 'Because I'm a chemist, asshole,' though the words always threatened to escape. Women from the Society House wanted folksy comfort. Chemistry - though it kept them alive with their heart pills, made their food sweet, and held their dentures in their mouths - was not desired, not from her.

it was rare enough to be cared for that it should not be taken lightly. He

Ryzhkova was accustomed to tarot with its layers of meaning, interpretations, and reversals, and how a picture might look one way but contain a contrary truth. Used to her silent apprentice, she had forgotten that language itself was as subtle and slippery as her cards, and that words contained hidden seeds that blossomed with a speaker's intent. A wish for safety meant nothing if the force behind it was a desire to kill. Though she spoke of love and protection, dread, grief, and anger bled through. Each word that fell from her tongue bound itself to paper with a small part of her soul, infusing the cards not with love as she thought, but with a hex burned strong and deep by fear. Buried in the heart of the deck, the Fool's eyes shut. She closed the box. A

I'd not taken you for a fool. Silent yes, but a fool, no.

Silence is its own kind of tension.

How strange it was that cleave had two such disparate meanings; she'd known to cut and tear, but now she knew to cling. She rested her cheek in the valley between his shoulder and chest. Amos

Sometimes you made love to a man because you wanted your body to feel something other than the aches and pains of use. Sometimes you made love to man because he looked so good that you wanted to try him on. Sometimes you made love to a man because he fathered your children, he made you a home, he loved you, and he staunched the parts of you that were always bleeding. Sometimes you made love to a man because you felt split in two, and joining with him pulled you back together.

She'd learned that to cling too tightly was to strangle.

Once you've held a book and really loved it, you forever remember the feel of it, its specific weight, the way it sits in your hand.

To think of the time I spend procuring books... How fitting: a book procured me. Utterly fantastic...

Perhaps the book opened a door; books have a way of causing ripples.

Something is very wrong. What began as a passing fascination with the book has turned into something darker,

I was taught to watch for gentle souls, as they've not the wit to look after themselves.

Churchwarry knows it matters little how much of it he believes, only that Simon believed. And he'd like to as well. For all the wideness of the water, the town he is in feels closed, isolated. Perhaps the book opened a door; books have a way of causing ripples. He watches a card dip and vanish under a whitecap and sees in the water's spray a hope so bright it blisters.

I need to get into the water, to clear my head.

My skin feels too tight, like I might rupture. My mother must have read the end, the cards Enola keeps reading, the same thing Verona Bonn read, all the way back to Ryzhkova. They passed the cards to each other creating history, fingers touching paper, imbuing it with hope and fears, fear like a curse. Of course they wouldn't clear their cards, they were talking to their mothers, and isn't that part of why I've stayed here? The book noted a falling out between Ryzhkova and her apprentice, a falling out over the mermaid. Enola said that cards build history - what a perfect way to wound someone. The cards were hers, Ryzhkova's, then Amos and Evangeline's on down the line, each leaving themselves in the ink, each pulling from the deck, pulling in fears that work like poison. The wind blows a sheet of paper across a split board. The only paper of consequence was never in my possession - it was in Enola's.

A trigger point for a curse may be hard to find, but if it's there, then there's a chance to break it. There is no stopping sadness. Sadness slips through the fingers. Frank

It's a small piece of awfulness.

She is not in my books, and what kind of man would choose words that are already written over what might still be?

Having all the time in the world makes getting things done impossible.

She just got sad, okay? Unbearably sad.

He sleeps as if making up for years of being awake.

Ever love something so much you start to think it's yours?

The book is open, spine cracked, abused in a way no one with respect for paper should ever do.

It's brutal to realize that someone might find a life with you in it unbearable.

Because there are things you do for people you've known your whole life. You let them save you, you put them in your books, and you let each other begin again, clean.

It's sort of like a hobby, but kind of like addiction?" he says, voice tipping up as he cocks his head. "You think you're gonna get just one, but then one starts looking really good with another and before you know it you want every piece of you drawn on. I wish I had more space. Some people don't like their skin, you know?" He pops a piece of broccoli into his mouth, using his fingers. "I picked mine.

Even in a sea of names, a drowning mermaid has a way of standing out.