228 Quotes About Beautiful-writing

Her head was on fire, pounding. She felt like she was on a boat like the bed was gently rocking back and forth, tossed among huge rolling waves.

Would a house like this ever be fully settled? Or would it ache and moan until the end of time, until all the newer, shodier houses had fallen to ruins around it?

He supposed that if he were a young female hitchhiker, he might ask a question or two himself before hopping willy-nilly into someone's car or truck. It might not help, but it sure couldn't hurt. Because once you were out in the desert, anything could happen to you.

There are those of us who haven't yet told our stories, or refuse to tell them, and so we become them: we hide away inside the memory until we can no longer stand the shell or the shock - perhaps I must tell it before it is forgotten or becomes like everything else, something else.

A heavy snow fell outside. In a symbolic kind of way, snow was to Chicago what cotton was to Mississippi. It blanketed the land. It was inevitable. Both were so much a part of the landscape of either place that where you saw snow you by definition would not see cotton and vice versa. Coming to Chicago was a guarantee that you would not be picking cotton. The people sitting at the dining room table this late winter night had chosen snow over cotton.

Shai knelt on the floor amid a pattern of scattered pages, each filled with cramped script or drawings of seals. Behind her, morning opened her eyes, and sunlight seeped through the stained glass window, spraying the room with crimson, blue, violet.

The cop turned his head then. This face, pinkish with the sun when he had stopped them, had gone pale. His eyes were very large, seeming to bulge out of his face like marbles. He had bitten his lip, like a man trying to suppress some monstrous rage, and blood ran down his chin in a thin stream.

The spot where Helga Crane sat was a small oasis in a desert of darkness.

I have enough money to buy food and drink, I have somewhere to live and enough free time in which to dream, write - and sleep - what more can I ask of the gods or hope for from fate? I had great ambitions and extravagant dreams, but so did the errand boy and the seamstress, for everyone has dreams; the only difference is the whether or not we have the strength to fulfil them or a destiny that will fulfil them through us.