When God closes a door, he opens a window. Yeah. The problem was that this particular window opened off the tenth story, and he wasn't so sure God supplied parachutes.
What he felt, though, was the echo of her flesh, and the reverberations of their farewell, with all its doubts and pleasures.
What are you doing with the child? I inquired cautiously.I'm teachin' young James here the fine art of not pissing on his feet, he explained.
Well, that’s the hell of it, isn’t it? she said, turning away. You never know, but you have to act anyway, don’t you?
Well, of course he does, Sassenach, Jamie said, reaching for another slice of toast. He left her his dog.
Well, let them look, he thought, quelling the urge. It only matters if she’s looking back, aye? He
We look in the mirror and see the shades of other faces looking back through the years; we see the shape of memory, standing solid in an empty doorway.
We didn’t speak anymore, then, as the melting boundaries of our bodies disappeared. It was slow, dreamy and peaceful, his body and mine as much as mine was his, so that I curled my foot round his leg...
Was a struggle to choose one's own destiny less worthwhile than the necessity to stop a great evil?
Venemous, Jamie corrected him. If it bites you and makes ye sick, it’s venemous; if you bite it and it makes ye sick, it’s poisonous.
Vain of his hair, which was blond and thick, he didn’t commonly wear a wig, choosing instead to bind and powder his own for formal occasions. The present occasion wasn’t formal in the least. With the...
Two things weren’t. The silver bracelet he had given her—and her grandmother’s pearls. Jesus bloody Christ. He looked again, just to be sure, dumping out the glittering junk and spreading it on his co...
Twenty-four years ago today, I married ye, Sassenach,’ he said softly. ‘I hope ye willna have cause yet to regret it.’ The
Tu ești curajul meu, așa cum eu sunt conștiința ta, mi-a șoptit. Tu ești inima mea, iar eu, compasiunea ta. Singuri, nu suntem întregi. Nu știai asta, englezoaico?
Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome. I had never seen a case before, but I had heard it described. Named for its most famous sufferer (who did not yet exist, I reminded myself), it was a degenerative disease of...
Took his lug and a wee bit o’ the side of his face, as well. Not that it will ha’ impaired his beauty ower-much, the ugly wee pusbag.
To the taste of breasts like apricots, the warm scent of a woman’s navel when she wakens in the winter, the warmth of a mound that fills your hand like a peach, split with ripeness.
To see the years touch ye gives me joy, Sassenach, he whispered, —for it means that ye live.
Time makes very little difference to the basic realities of life
Time is a lot of the things people say that God is. There's always preexisting, and having no end. There's the notion of being all powerful-because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountain...