In the world I notice persons are nearly always stressed and have no time. Even Grandma often says that, but she and Steppa don't have jobs, so I don't know how persons with jobs do the jobs and all t...
Sometimes words were like glass that broke in her mouth.
If I was made of cake I'd eat myself before somebody else could.
For all the books in his possession, he still failed to read the stories written plain as day in the faces of the people around him.
When I tell her what I’m thinking and she tells me what she’s thinking, our each ideas jumping into the other’s head, like coulouring blue crayon on top of yellow that makes green.
Well, they don’t make their music just to pass the time, says Jenny, grinning. Got to want something to sing about it, no?
This is a bad story.Sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.No, you should, I say.But—I don’t want there to be bad stories and me not know them.
Men never feel quite the same about a woman's body once they know it's done that thing: widened and torn to push out a baby's head.
Me and Ma have a deal, we're going to try everything one time so we know what we like.
Mary regretted it a little already. Sometimes words were like glass that broke in her mouth.
Fate was faceless, life arbitrary, a tale told by an idiot.
Ambition was an itch in Mary's show, a maggot in her guts.
What does a promise mean, when it's made to a monster?
Once I was a stupid girl; now I am an angry woman.
Lots of the world seems to be a repeat.
In the yard of the inn, Daffy Cadwaladyr introduced himself. Short for Davyd, he said pleasantly.The Londoner looked as if she'd never heard a sillier name in her life.
The paper
Somewhere between good and bad - bits of both stuck together.Ma
Ma knows everything except the things she doesn’t remember right, or sometimes she says I’m too young for her to explain a thing.
And tonight Mary could taste bitterness going down like a nut, settling in her stomach. It planted itself, put down roots, and began to grow, nourished on her dark blood.