I don’t care. If I like somebody, I like her, and that’s that.” He thumped his chest and made a scowly face. “Let ‘em come for me. I will stare down the mob with their pitchforks! I will make a speech about tolerance and love. I will tell them the folly of their ways! And then I will grab your hand and run like hell because, Jesus, a mob with pitchforks?
Libba BrayWho but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren't we all just a little crazy?
Libba BrayShall I tell you a story? A new and terrible one? A ghost story? Are you ready? Shall I begin? Once upon a time there were four girls. One was pretty. One was clever. One charming, and one...one was mysterious. But they were all damaged, you see. Something not right about the lot of them. Bad blood. Big dreams. Oh, I left that part out. Sorry, that should have come before. They were all dreamers, these girls. One by one, night after night, the girls came together. And they sinned. Do you know what that sin was? No one? Pippa? Ann? Their sin was that they believed. Believed they could be different. Special. They believed they could change what they were--damaged, unloved. Cast-off things. They would be alive, adored, needed. Necessary. But it wasn't true. This is a ghost story remember? A tragedy. They were misled. Betrayed by their own stupid hopes. Things couldn't be different for them, because they weren't special after all. So life took them, led them, and they went along, you see? They faded before their own eyes, till they were nothing more than living ghosts, haunting each other with what could be. With what can't be. There, now. Isn't that the scariest story you've ever heard?
Libba BrayMostra la citazione in tedesco
Mostra la citazione in francese
Mostra la citazione in italiano
Things aren't good or bad in and of themselves. It's what we do with them that makes them so.
Libba Bray...we're in English class, which for most of us is an excruciating exercise in staying awake through the great classics of literature. These works-- groundbreaking, incendiary, timeless-- have been pureed by the curriculum monsters into a digestible pabulum of themes and factoids we can spew back on a test. Scoring well on tests is the sort of happy thing that gets the school district the greenbacks they crave. Understanding and appreciating the material are secondary.
Libba BrayWelcome to finishing school, Gemma. Learn to embroider, serve tea, curtsy. Oh, and by the way, you might be demolished in the night by a hideous winged creature from the roof.
Libba BrayBooks are, at their heart, dangerous. Yes, dangerous. Because they challenge us: our prejudices, our blind spots. They open us to new ideas, new ways of seeing. They make us hurt in all the right ways. They can push down the barricades of ‘them’
Libba Bray...dreams were dreams and reality was reality and she felt people were better off understanding the difference.
Libba BrayYou look very handsome, Papa," I say.
The twinkle is back in his eyes. "Smoke and mirrors," he says with a wink. "Smoke and mirrors.
Why does it always seem that I have only the shadow of my father? I'm like a child constantly grabbing at his coattails and missing.
Libba Bray« prima precedente
Pagina 37 di 63.
prossimo ultimo »
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.