Sarah Gailey Quotes

She was faster than a secret spreading through a church picnic.

When there's people around that we don't trust, we let them think we're the kinds of people who are allowed to exist. And the only kind of Librarian that's allowed to exist is one who answers to she.

Even after everything--even with everything that was still between us, that would probably always be between us--she was my sister. I was born reaching for her.

People didn't stick because I was made of fucking Teflon. I'd always told myself that it was better that way, that being alone was easier. That I wasn't a coward for easing my way out of friendships before they could really start.

Affirmation and illusion, bound up tighter than two snakes in the same egg.

She wanted that satisfaction. She wanted it for herself wanted it like a half-starved alley-rat watching that table through a window on a bellyaching night. She didn't know how to get it - but she had a feeling that if she stuck with the Librarians for long enough, she might be able to figure it out. How to feast instead of starving.

How to like the person who she was instead of fighting it.

This time was going to be different. This time was going to be better. This time, I was going to be enough.

In my mind, I took what had just happened to my shoulder, and I put it into a box. A box with a tight lid. I dropped the box into a deep brick-lined oubliette. It landed somewhere next to my mother's last words and my searing loneliness and everything else I needed to forget, and just like that, I was fine again.

You really believe all that? About how there's only one end in sight for people like you?" Amity said, tipping her chin back toward the sky and pulling her hat partway down her face, so only her nose and mouth were visible. "Horseshit. You only think that because you've never seen different." Esther started to reply, but Amity held up a still-bloody finger. "Don't interrupt me, pup. You know I'm right. You're a woman and you love people who aren't men, is that right?"
Esther hesitated to make sure she wasn't interrupting. "That's right," she said, "but - "
"No but, it's just true," Amity said, proving that her rule about interruptions only ran in one direction. "And you've only ever read stories about people like you, right? You've never met one of your kind before now. Well, except for Beatriz," she added. "Ain't that so?"
"Yeah," Esther answered reluctantly. She sensed a trap coming, but she couldn't figure out how to step around it.
"All those stories you've read," Amity said softly, pulling her hat back off her eyes by a few degrees. "Who gave 'em to you?

In the early twentieth century, the Congress of our great nation debated a glorious plan to resolve a meat shortage in America. The idea was this: import hippos and raise them in Louisiana's bayous. The hippos would eat the ruinously invasive water hyacinth; the American people would eat the hippos; everyone would go home happy. Well, except the hippos. They'd go home eaten. Much to everyone's disappointment, Congress didn't follow through on the plan, and today America lives a cursed life - a beef life, with nary a free-range hippo within the borders of our country.