Suzanne Selfors Quotes

Juliet took a hesitant step toward Troy, looking at him the way a child looks at a new toy. "I've henver heard a man speak in such a manner. Who are you?
"I'm..."
"That's Troy." O saod, stepping between them. The less Golden Boy said the better.

We shall sing and be merry. Troy had agreed to sing my song 'Girl, Come Hither and We Shall Dither."
"Uh, not really," Troy said.
"Perhaps you would prefer 'Girl, Come and Handle My Candle?

Rosabella Beauty was the daughter of the famous Beauty, a girl whose love had turned the Beast back into a prince. Darling Charming was the daughter of the renowned King Charming, whose royal storyline stretched back to the very beginning of stories. The Charming men had always been known for their heroic deeds, luxurious hair, and enchanting eyes. Darling's two brothers were expected to follow in King Charming's heroic footsteps by saving damsels, slaying dragons, and basically conquering whatever evil stepped into their paths.
Darling, however, was not a son. She was a daughter. And being a daughter was a different matter altogether. No heroic deeds were expected of her. No quests or adventures. While the activities of the Charming princes had always been celebrated by poets and storytellers, the Charming princesses had a singular destiny- to be damsels in distress waiting for rescue.

He wondered if burned books made a special kind of smoke that clung to the world forever, in the same way that a book, once read, clings to its reader forever.

I loved the kiss. That's why I smiled at you. I loved it. I was embarrassed by how much I loved it. (Troy Summer)

What are you reading?" Darling asked.
"The latest issue of Beast Weekly," Rosabella said. As an activist who stood up for the rights of beasts everywhere, she liked to keep up with beastly matters.

We walked up the steps of a quaint stone church. "Get those friggin' leeches away from me!" a familiar voice yelled from a second story window ... "I said, no leeches!

The trumpeter is beautiful to behold, graceful and elegant, just like our Ms. Swan. But if you disturb a trumpeter, trespass through its territory, or threaten its nest, it will hiss like a cobra and attack with the viciousness of a wolf. That is the black swan side.

I cant help but notice that you are not wearing a wedding ring, dear lady. Are you, by any chance, looking for a husband?' He smiled eagerly, his drenched hat clinging to his round head.

Looking for a husband? Why?' Grandma Maxine asked. 'Did I lose one?

Happiness is sweetest when shared.

What is more terrifying
the things we imagine or the things that are real?

A wish is a good place to start but then you have to get off your butt and make it happen. You have to pick up a quill and write your own damn story.

Well, he's not a weirdo. I didn't turn around to look at Malcolm because he was probably eating dish soap or mayonnaise or something.

Imagine if we all went around telling people exactly what we were thinking - we'd all sound like a bunch of third graders. MY Vincent drink will be much better than YOUR Vincent drink.

I had a life. It was falling apart, but it was mine.

My son, there is no reason to be distraught. The leeches will cleanse your wound." The friar scratched one of his enormous ears with the tweezers. "My insurance doesn't cover freaky friars or leeches." Troy sat up and swung his legs over the cot. A strip of cloth was wrapped around his gray tights, just above his left knee. A dark red stain had spread across the strip. "When my agent finds out you've kept me here, instead of taking me to a hospital, he'll cram a lawsuit up your butt so fast you'll be the one who's...distraught.

Trying to make sense of love is like trying to dissect a rainbow.

Once she'd graduated from Ever After High, she'd open her own chain of bakeries. She'd publish cookbooks and create an entire line of gourmet treats under her label, Ginger's Goodies. By sharing her talents on a larger scale, she'd help make the world a happier place. For Ginger Breadhouse believed, with every ounce, gram, and sprinkle of her soul, that good food was one of the secret ingredients to happiness. Whether in times of celebration or sadness, beautifully prepared goodies had the power to bring people together.

Standing in the beam of refrigerator light, Malcolm squirted ketchup into his mouth.
"He's ... visiting," I said.
Vincent narrowed his eyes and his voice took on a fatherly tone. "Why's he here at midnight?"
Malcolm licked the inside of a mustard lid, then said, "I'm here at midnight because I'm fulfilling Katrina's desire.

The greenhouse was made entirely of glass. Its ceiling reached five stories high, tall enough to fit a variety of fruit-bearing trees and vines. Butterflies flitted between sparkling flowers. Honeybees collected pollen for their hive, which conveniently drip honey right into glass jars. And watermelons, root beer melons, and orangeade melons grew along trellises.

While Ginger didn't like the evil-recipe days, she certainly loved the treat-making days. She liked rolling dough and cutting it into perfect shapes. She liked grating chocolate into curlicues and pouring syrups into lollipop molds.

Live. How many of us need to be reminded that living has nothing to do with trying to be as good as someone else, or trying to fit into some category, or filling in the blanks on some stupid checklist. That it has nothing to do with punishing yourself for past mistakes.

Anyone who loves books the way Homer does, loves libraries, too. It doesn't matter if the library has fancy red leather chairs and gold-plated shelves that reach to a vaulted ceiling, or if the library has splintery wooden benches and shelves made of old milk crates. it's the scent that sets the book lover at ease. It's better than grandma's perfume, or freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, or even toast. It's a scent derived from paper, mildew, dust, and human endeavors.

He didn't say anything. Then he leaned closer, so that his arm touched my shoulder. A jolt ran down my body. Everyone in our little group watched, waiting for a response. "I would be honored to escort you, Katrina."
"Oh. Okay." I pulled the bathrobe collar as high as it would go to hide my flaming cheeks.
Malcolm slapped his hand on his knee, then turned to the man sitting next to us and said,way too loudly, "I'm taking Katrina to the Solstice Festival."
"Good for you kid.

'You do know what magic is, don't you?'
Magic's when you close your eyes, make a wish, and it comes true.'
'No, that's coincidence.'
Magic's when a princess kisses a frog and it turns into a prince.'
'No, that's evolution.'
Isabelle scratched her neck. 'Well, then, what is magic?

Do you think it's weird that we're not in love with each other?"
"No. I think it's perfect.

In her sleep?" I couldn't believe it. "How did she say it? I mean, did she sound angry?"
He frowned. "I don't know how she said it."
"Come on try to remember. Was it sad like this ... Owen? Or was it kind of sweet like this ... Ownen? Or was it-

Surely there were others like me, born without an inkling of direction. The wanderers, the amblers, the dabblers, united by our purposeless mantra-I have no idea what to do with my life.

Our doubts are traitors and make us
lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. In other words, a
wish is a good place to start but then you have to get off your butt and make it
happen. You have to pick up a quill and write your own damn story. (Mimi Wallingford)

You got anything more to eat?"
He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a cube of butter. Before I could stop him he took a bite. He worked the butter around inn his mouth, then swallowed. "Bit odd," he said, setting the rest of the cube onto the counter.

Troy sighed with frustration. "Let me get this straight. We're stuck in the story of Romeo and Juliet and we can't get home without a magic charm from Shakespeare's quill, which doesn't exist in this world. However, we might be able to get home when the story ends, but if Romeo and Juliet don't meet, then we don't have a story. More important, we don't have an ending."
Friar Laurence tsk tsked. He placed his speckled hand on Troy's forehead. "Bless you, my son, but a fever has muddled your mind.