661 Quotes by Storm Constantine

Sudden squalls of wind seemed to talk to him, pluck his hair in a spiteful way.

Someone had once said to him that belief itself was a sickness, a dead end for the questing intelligence of the human mind. It seemed he’d infected himself with a debilitating dose.

There is something out there for me, he thought, and then he chided himself for the melodrama of the idea. There is something out there for everyone, everywhere, if they have the courage to look. He knew he was no different from anyone else. Perhaps he had simply become the victim of calenture, and had not realised it. He did not feel fevered and yet his compulsion was undeniably mazy.

Ays is my lost soul, he though, my lost soul wandering.

He knew he could not get close to Ays, for Ays was the part of himself that was distant. He could only ever be a phantom in Ays’s reality, reaching out to touch, to communicate, yet fruitlessly because he was mute and limbless. In some strange way, even though he knew himself to be the author of Ays’ life, he was but an observer on the boundary of it; helpless.

If Finnigin was to be Casmeer’s peaks, then Ays would be his hollows, and for all Ays’ distance, it was easier to be with him than with the flickering presence of the terranaut.

The wind-trains, for all their outward hectic rush, were themselves quite motionless with. Their passengers were reporters, chroniclers, of the flatlands, observers all.

She succumbed to the disease of love, reliquished her flesh to its fevering infection, opened her mind to its gnawing absesses and sores.

Leeth sat beside Ays and he smiled at her cooly; an aloofness that in the face of a beloved is devastatingly bewitching.