You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable.
-Eponymous Clent
I am anything I wish to be. The world cannot choose for me. No, it is for me to choose what the world shall be.
Frances HardingeTags: choices
If wits were pins, the man would be a veritable hedgehog.
Frances HardingeBrand a man as a thief and no one will ever hire him for honest labor - he will be a hardened robber within weeks. The brand does not reveal a person's nature, it shapes it.
Frances HardingeRevenge is a dish best served unexpectedly and from a distance - like a thrown trifle.
Frances HardingeTags: revenge pragmatism
Sometimes fear made you angry. Perhaps after years anger cooled, like a sword taken from a forge. Perhaps in the end you were left with something very cold and very sharp.
Frances HardingeI generally find,' Clent murmured after a pause, 'that it is best to treat borrowed time the same way as borrowed money. Spend it with panache, and try to be somewhere else when it runs out.'
'And when we get found, Mr. Clent, when the creditors and bailiffs come after us and it's payment time...'
'...then we borrow more, madam, at a higher interest. We embark on a wilder gamble, make a bigger promise, tell a braver story, devise a more intricate lie, sell the hides of imaginary dragons to desperate men, climb to even higher and more precarious ground...and later, of course, our fall and catastrophe will be all the worse, but later will be our watchword, Mosca. We have nothing else - but we can at least make later later.
Tags: humor procrastination
My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.
Frances HardingeBut in the name of all that is holy, Mosca, of all the people you could have taken up with, why Eponymous Clent?" murmured Kohlrabi.
Because I'd been hording words for years, buying them from peddlers and carving them secretly on bits of bark so I wouldn't forget them, and then he turned up using words like "epiphany" and "amaranth." Because I heard him talking in the marketplace, laying out sentences like a merchant rolling out rich silks. Because he made words and ideas dance like flames and something that was damp and dying came alive in my mind, the way it hadn't since they burned my father's books. Because he walked into Chough with stories from exciting places tangled around him like maypole streamers..."
Mosca shrugged.
"He's got a way with words.
Tags: words fantasy beautiful-writing
Well, you will have to do. If you had died along with your mother, I would have taught the cat to read.
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