And was there love there? Beyond the limits of flesh and time, was all love possible? Was it necessary? The voice of my thoughts seemed to be Uncle Lamb's. My family, and all I knew of love as a child. A man who had never spoken love to me, who had never needed to, for I knew he loved me, as surely as I knew I loved. For where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary. It is all. It is undying. And it is enough.
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He turned his head to look full at me, his hair fire-struck with the setting sun, face dark in silhouette. "Twenty-four years ago today, I married ye, Sassenach," he said softly. "I hope ye willna have cause yet to regret it." -Jamie Fraser
Diana GabaldonWhen I was small, I never wanted to step in puddles. Not because of any fear of drowned worms or wet stockings; I was by and large a grubby child, with a blissful disregard for filth of any kind.
It was because I couldn't bring myself believe that that perfect smooth expanse was no more than I thin film of water over solid earth. I believed it was an opening into some fathomless space. Sometimes, seeing the tiny ripples caused by my approach, I thought the puddle impossibly deep, a bottomless sea in which the lazy coil of a tentacle and gleam of scale lay hidden, with the threat of huge bodies and sharp teeth adrift and silent in the far-down depths.
And then, looking down into reflection, I would see my own round face and frizzled hair against a featureless blue sweep, and think instead that the puddle was the entrance to another sky. If I stepped in there, I would drop at once, and keep on falling, on and on, into blue space.
The only time I would dare walk though a puddle was at twilight, when the evening stars came out. If I looked in the water and saw one lighted pinprick there, I could slash through unafraid--for if I should fall into the puddle and on into space, I could grab hold of the star as I passed, and be safe.
Even now, when I see a puddle in my path, my mind half-halts--though my feet do not--then hurries on, with only the echo of the though left behind.
What if, this time, you fall?
Tag: imagination fantasy science-fiction time-travel childlike-wonder
Where d'ye think he is now?" Jenny said suddenly. "Ian, I mean."
He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn't Ian any more. He was panicked for a moment, for his earlier emptiness returning-but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him.
"On your right, man." On his right. Guarding his weak side.
"He's just here," he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. "Where he belongs.
Ma chère, I serve a man who multiplied the loaves and fishes”—he smiled, nodding at the pool, where the swirls of the carps’ feeding were still subsiding—“who healed the sick and raised the dead. Shall I be astonished that the master of eternity has brought a young woman through the stones of the earth to do His will?” Well, I reflected, it was better than being denounced as the whore of Babylon.
Diana GabaldonTag: believing
It's a good country for myths. Things seem to take root here.
Diana GabaldonDespair dragged at me like an anchor, pulling me down. I closed my eyes and retreated to some dim place within, where there was nothing but an aching grey blankness…
Diana GabaldonTag: despair ache retreat blankness anchor
No matter how ugly the manner in which a man dies, it’s only the presence of a suffering human soul that is horrifying, once gone, what is left is only an object.
Diana GabaldonTag: soul death suffering dies
Mama says the Beardsleys follow her around like dogs, but they don’t. They follow her like tame wolves.
I thought Ian said it wasn’t possible to tame wolves.
It isn’t.
and if she wasn’t precisely pretty, she had a force of character that is often more attractive than simple beauty.
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