Jacqueline Carey Quotes - Page 3

We pay for sins we do not remember, and seek to do a will we can scarce fathom. That is what it is, to be a god's chosen.

One must gauge one's trust carefully.

To recongnize that the treachery of one member of a house does not taint all born within it

It's funny how despair can soon become an old companion

Stupid to speak of blame when the wills of the immortals are involved.

A nervous silence loosens tongues

Yes my lord, but questions are dangerous, for they have answers

And for a price, I will pretend absolutely nothing.

Genius requires an audience.

It is a comfort, in anguish, to be reminded of the scale of one's own troubles against the mighty breadth of the world.

There is no folly like the folly of the wise.

Grief heals ... unshed tears fester like a canker in the soul.

Night breeds its own sort of anticipation.

There are those who hold that there is a pattern to all that is said and done in this world, that no thing happens without reason nor out of time. As to that, I cannot speak, for I have seen too many threads cut short to believe it, but of a surety, I have seen too the weft of my fate shuttled on the loom. If there is a pattern, I do not think there is anyone among us who can stand at a great enough distance to discern it; yet I will not say that it is not so.

That was the problem ... with trusting to the written word ... We were human, mortal and fallible. We forgot, we made errors, argued ambiguities, and twisted meanings to suit our own ends. And in doing so, mayhap we reshaped the gods themselves.

The tapestry of history is woven of many threads.

Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.

We may not have demon fathers dangling offers of infernal power before us, but everyone understands what it means to struggle with temptation or resist the urge to give in to our baser natures.

It's funny, because in deference to conventional wisdom, I spent my struggling writer years trying to suppress my naturally baroque literary voice and write clean, spare prose. I finally gave up and embraced my baroque tendencies when I wrote the Kushiel series.

Surely if we knew what bitterness fate held in store, we would shrink back in fear and let the cup of life pass us by untasted.

The harp sounds at each passing breeze, but that does not mean the tune is masterfully played.

There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.

I preferred a hard truth to a well-meant lie.

Pain redeems all. It is the awareness of life, a reminder of death.

There is as much deception in noise as there is in silence