Victoria Schwab Quotes

His gaze settles on the discarded book. He leans, reaching until his fingertips graze Dante's Inferno, still on its bed of folded sheets. "What have we here?" he asks.
"Required reading," I say.
"It's a shame they do that," he says, thumbing through the pages. "Requirement ruins even the best of books.

He felt alive – so alive – but tarnished, his sense screaming and his head a tangle of dark thoughts and feelings and power, and he was drowning and shivering and burning alive

Everything felt fast after being in a cell for ten years. Everything felt free. For the first few days they had driven aimlessly, the need to move outweighing the need for a destination.

But once you know, you can't go back. Not really. You can carve out someone's memories, but they won't be who they were before. They'll just be full of holes. Given the choice, I'd rather learn to live with what I know.

Serena was very good at telling tales. She had always been convincing (that was the word her sister liked to use for lying).

Sydney knew not to trust fear, and certainly not to trust the absence of it.

This was a chance for Rhy to shine, not only as a jewel, but as a sword. He had always been a symbol of wealth. He wanted to be a symbol of power. Magic was power, of course, but it wasn't the only kind. Rhy told himself he could still be strong without it.

His lips linger on mine, urgent and warm.
Lasting.
And then he pulls away, breath ragged. His hand falls from my skin, and I understand.
He's not wearing his ring.
He didn't just kiss me.
He read me.

And whatever lie he would have given, it died on his lips as they met hers.

Maybe is a rope in a hole, or the key to a door. Maybe is how you find the way out.

I live in a world where shadows have teeth. It's not a particularly relaxing environment.

That's how he saw climbing, a physical exercise in positive and negative space. The vast expanse of white drawing the small, person-shaped speck into sharp relief.

If these men worshipped anything, they worshipped magic, which she supposed would be heresy back in Grey London. But then again, Christians worshipped an old man in the sky, and if Lila had to say which one seemed more real at the moment, she'd have to side with magic.

Dad says that the world is always changing, every second of every day, and so is everything in it, which means that the you you are right now is different from the you you were when you started reading this sentence. Crazy, right? And your memories change, too. (For instance, I swear the teddy bear I had growing up was green, but according to my parents it was orange.) But when you take a photograph, things stay still. The way that they were, is the way that they are, is the way that they will always be.

There have been times when I've wavered. When I thought maybe I wanted to be normal. But the thing is, what we do, it's in our blood. It's who we are. Normal wouldn't fit us, even if we wanted to wear it.

He wasn't made of flesh and bone, or starlight.
He was made of darkness.

Don't let looks fool you, Cass. Paris is brimming with ghost stories.

He fought the men and he slayed the monsters and he bested the gods, and at last the hero, having conquered all, earned the thing that he wanted most. To go home.

Agatha has a dangerous ease about her. She's the kind of person you want to like you.

He was no longer wondering whether or not he'd made a mistake. He was certain. Certain that in twenty-two years of life, this was the worst plan he had ever come up with. This was the wrong method, the fading, rational part of Victor said, the part that had been studying adrenaline and pain and fear. He shouldn't have washed the amphetamines down with whiskey, shouldn't have done anything to dull the nerves and senses, to ease the process, but he'd been nervous … afraid. Now he was going numb, and that scared him more than pain because it meant he might just … fade.

Fade right into death without noticing.

This was wrong wrong wrong … but that voice was drifting off, replaced by a spreading, sinking -

It could work.

Nothing you ever do, Eli, is meant to be theoretical. I see it in you.

The wind took hold of whatever I felt, and ran away with it.

I am not afraid of nightmares, because mine came true and I lived through them.

How old are you?" he asked.

"Thirteen," she lied because she hated being twelve.

Alucard snaked an arm possessively around his shoulders and brought his lips to the prince's neck, just below his ear. Rhy actually shivered.
"You are far too familiar with your prince," he warned.
"So you confess it, then?" His brushed his lips against Rhy's throat. "That you are mine.

Scary, how easy it is to forget bad things.

...when it comes to the strange and unexplained, it's important to keep an open mind.

That's what he told himself, over and over and over until he believed it, because truth wasn't the same thing as fact. It was personal.

He wanted to care, he wanted to care so badly, but there was this gap between what he felt and what he wanted to feel, a space where something important had been carved out.

Thrones make tyrants of us all. (Vortalis, A Conjuring of Light)

People are users. It's a universal truth. Use them, or they'll use you.

You sure have a lot of piercings for a guy with a needle phobia."
"I am the master of my fears

Now, as the party reached the royal hall the brothers shared, Tolners produced a note and held it up for Kell to read. "This isn't funny."
Apparently Rhy had had the grace to pin the note to his door, in case anyone in the palace should worry. "Not kidnapped. Out for a drink with Kell. Sit tight.

There's a big difference between can't and won't.

It's a monster's world.

He leans in, resting his weathered hand on the bed. Treat all the bad things like dreams, Kenzie. That way, no matter how scary or dark they get, you just have to survive until you wake up.

Lying is easy. But it's lonely.

Be lost. Give up. Give In. in the end It would be better to surrender before you begin. be lost. Be lost And then you will not care if you are ever found.

sheets, I keep hearing something - or someone - calling, just loud enough to pierce the walls. The voice is surely something more than wind, curling and twisting itself into highs and lows, like muffled music. I know that if only I could lean closer, words would become clear, distinct. Words that wouldn't break apart before I can wrap my mind around them.

I am Delilah Bard, she thought, as the ropes cut into her skin. I am a thief and a pirate and a traveler. I have set foot in three different worlds, and lived. I have shed the blood of royals and held magic in my hands.

My heart sinks. I guess I should be glad he doesn't care, but I'm not. He's supposed to care. Mom cares so much, it's smothering; but that doesn't mean he's allowed to do this, to check out. And suddenly I need him to care. I need him to give me something so I know he's still here, still Dad.

Calling the Tuileries a garden is like calling Hogwarts a school.

I suppose it doesn't matter how they get out. All that matters is they do. And when they do, they must be found. They must go back.

She'd only been with Victor and Mitch a few days, but it had been long enough to grow familiar with the sounds they both made. Not just their voices, but the way they sounded when they weren't speaking, the way they breathed and laughed and moved, the way they filled a space, and traveled through it.

Doubt is like a current you have to swim against, one that saps your strength.

He guided her back against a hedge, and kissed her breathless. The wind sang through the garden, tangling in her dress and his cloak, whipping around them both as his hands, more smoke than skin, wrapped around her waist and her hands, flesh and bone, wrapped around his back and––

If you don't show, I'm likely to do something foolish, like throw myself at Aluc-

Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.

I am blotting out pieces of my life. I am blotting out everything but this. But him. I exhale as he brushes against me, my body beginning to uncurl, to loosen at his fingertips. I am letting him wash over me, drown every part of me that I don't need in order to kiss or to listen or to smile or to want. This is what I want. This is my drug. The pain, both skin-deep and deeper, is finally gone. Everything is gone but the quiet.
And the quiet is wonderful.

. "You can't be here."

"Can't, shouldn't, wouldn't, won't," she whispered. "No one saw me go. No one thinks to look for someone who's always there. They are all looking for you."

"How did you find us?"

"You tick, I tock," she said, her voice so soft that only his ears could pick it up. "I would hear you anywhere."

Everything seems different at night. Defined. Beyond the window, the world is full of shadows, all pressed together in harsh relief, somehow sharper than they ever were in daylight.
Sounds seem sharper,too, at night. A whistle. A crack. A child's whisper.

Rituals were funny things. People thought of them as either elaborate formulas, magic spells, or compulsions drilled into the subconscious by months or years of repetition. But really, ritual was just a fancy word for habit. A thing that became easier to do than not do. And habits were simple - especially bad ones, like letting people in.

We protect the past. And the way I see it, that means we need to understand it.

Humanity was messy. For the majority of his short life, he'd thought of people as either food or bad, clean or stained - the separation stark, the lines drawn in black and white - but the last six months had shown him a multitude of grays.

Sydney's arms were beginning to ache from lifting the shovel, but for the first time in a year, she wasn't cold. Her cheeks burned, and she was sweating through her coat, and she felt alive.
As far as she was concerned, that was the only good thing about digging up a corpse.

Free caffeine and sugar, a recipe for making friends.

It was a game she sometimes played, ever since she learned about the theory of infinite parallels, the idea that a person's path through life wasn't really a line, but a tree, every decision a divergent branch, resulting in a divergent you.

He manages a sad smile. An omission is not the same thing as a lie, Miss Bishop. It's a manipulation.

Lisa folds her hands. "The world tests us for reasons, Miss Bishop," she says sweetly. "Don't you want to be Crew?"

I hate that line. I hate it because it is the Librarians' way of saying deal with it.

Every weakness exposes flesh," he'd said, "and flesh invites a knife.

It was a cruel trick of the universe, thought August, that he only felt human after doing something monstrous.

Things only hurt more when you can see them.

I can see him juggling the words inside his head. Fumbling. I tried to juggle once, with three apples I'd found in the pantry. But I just ended up bruising them all so badly my mother had to make apple bread. The whole time I was trying, I kept getting lost in the movements. I couldn't concentrate on all of them at once.
I wish Cole would give me an apple. And then he looks at me, and there's that same sad, almost smile, like he's decided to pass me one, but he knows I can't juggle either. Like there's no reason for both of us to bruise things any more than needed.
I hold out my hand. Let me help.

No, dearie. I don't need any seeds. And besides, I'm growing moor flowers. Wildflowers." "I didn't know you could, in this soil." "You can't, of course. That's the point. Flowers are freethinking things. They grow where they please. I'd like to see you try and tell a moor flower where to grow.

It perplexed him, how someone about to play God could pray to Him, but it clearly didn't bother his friend.

Everything about him was light - his skin, his hair, his eyes, his hands as they danced through the air above her skin, touching her only when absolutely necessary.

WESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado. He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret. He is the boy who reads me books. He is the one who teaches me how to touch.

She'd seen a documentary once, on cult leaders, and the traits that made them so effective. One of the most important features was a commanding presence. Too many people thought that meant being loud, but in truth, it meant someone who didn't need to be loud. Someone who could command an audience without ever raising their voice.

Sometimes I miss the people my characters were before I ruined their lives.

A horrible, heart-slamming-in-her-chest, run-run-run kind of scared. But her mother said there's no outrunning Death or the devil, so she holds her ground and tells herself there's more than one kind of quick in the world.

He wondered about himself (whether he was broken, or special, or better, or worse) and about other people (whether they were really all as stupid as they seemed).

He could be the monster if it kept others human.

Nature is constantly growing, changing, one of the few things that can't hold memories. You forget how much clutter there is in the world, in the people and things, until you're surrounded by green. And even if they don't hear and see and feel the past the way I do, I wonder if normal people feel this too
the quiet.

You really are like him, your father."
"I can't tell whether you think that's good or bad."
"What does it matter? It's simply true.

Rule one," she said, forcing her voice even, light. "Don't make friends. It never ends well." Riley rolled a soda can between his palms. "But doesn't it get lonely?" Kate smiled. It was so easy when you could lie. "No.

It was a stick-figure drawing. Two people holding hands. A thin man in black and a girl, half his height with short hair, and wide eyes. The stick-girl's head was cocked slightly, and a small red spot marked her arm. Three similar spots, no bigger than periods, dotted the stick-man's chest. The stick-man's mouth was nothing more than a faint grim line.

Beneath the drawing ran a single sentence: I made a friend.

Now, as I look around at a room filled not only with boxes but plenty of its own marks, I want to know the stories behind them. Or rather, a part of me wants to know those stories. The other part of me thinks that's the worst idea in the world, but I don't listen to that part. Ignorance may be bliss, but only if it outweighs curiosity. Curiosity is a gateway drug to sympathy, Da's warning echoes in my head, and I know; but there are no Histories here to feel sympathy for. Which is exactly why the Archive wouldn't approve. They don't approve of any form of recreational reading.

Knowledge is power," she finishes, and I open my eyes to find her rounding the chair, "but ignorance can be a blessing.

Da thought of people as books to be read, but I've always thought of them more as formulas- full of variables, but always the sum of their parts.

When no one understands, that's usually a good sign that you're wrong.

Science, even completely fictional science, held sway.

There is a mirror across from me, and I check my reflection in it before heading home. Despite the bone-deep fatigue and the growing fear and frustration, I look ... fine. Da always said he'd teach me to play cards. Said I'd take the bank, the way things never reach my eyes. There should be something - a tell, a crease between my eyes, or a tightness in my jaw.
I'm too good at this.
Behind my reflection I see the painting of the sea, slanting as if the waves crashing on the rocks have hit with enough force to tip the picture. I turn and straighten it. The frame makes a faint rattling sound when I do. Everything in this place seems to be falling apart.

Picking the best solution really depended on your definition of best.

Like I said, Kenzie. Everything ends. I'm not afraid to die," you say with a wan smile. "I just hope I'm smart enough to stay dead.

Every weakness exposes flesh, and flesh invites a knife.

Her eyes register the darkness beyond the windows, then travel back to the neglected groceries. Something in her sags. And for a moment, I see her. Not the watts-too-bright, smile-till-it-hurts her, but the real one. The mother who lost her little boy.

A man is not a cause, and a cause is not a man.

A confession: I am not a good friend. Lyndsey writes letters, Lyndsey makes calls. Lyndsey makes plans. Everything I do is in reaction to everything she does, and I'm terrified of the day she decides not to pick up the phone, not to take the first step. I'm terrified of the day Lyndsey outgrows my secrets, my ways. Outgrows me.

Prison left a hunger in you, a craving. The exact nature of the want depended on the person.

Victor wanted something, too.

He wanted to watch Eli bleed.

Nobody gets to stay the same.

Language is the most valuable currency.

What a mess. Truths are messy and lies are messy, and I don't care what Da said, it's impossible to cut a person into pielike pieces, neat and tidy.

Kate wondered who was more addicted to their high, serial killers or coffee addicts.

I want to be oblivious to the hurt written on her face. I want to be selfish and young and normal. M would be that way. She would need space to grieve. She would rebel because her parents were simply uncool, not because one was wearing a horrifying happy mask and the other was a living ghost. She'd be distant because she was preoccupied with boys or school, not because she's tired from hunting down the Histories of the dead, or distracted by her new hotel-turned-apartment, where the walls are filled with crimes.

Because caring was a thing with claws. It sank them in, and didn't let go. Caring hurt more than a knife to the leg, more than a few broken ribs, more than anything that bled or broke and healed again. Caring didn't break you clean. It was a bone that didn't set, a cut that wouldn't close.

It was better not to care--Lila tried not to care--but sometimes, people got in.

Why would you even want to be human? We're fragile. We die."
"You also live. You don't spend every day wondering why you exist,but don't feel real, why you look human, but can't be. You don't do everything you can to be a good person only to have it constantly thrown in your face that you're not a person at all.

Word of mouth was its own kind of magic.

Isn't it strange? It's like after they die, you're only allowed to remember the good. But no one's all good.

The beautiful thing about books was that anyone could open them.

Don't kill me tonight," she added as she led him into the dark. And he never even thought of it.