Richelle Mead Quotes

Helplessness induces hopelessness, and history attests that loss of hope and not loss of lives is what decides the issue of war.

I can't pretend that I'm brave and that I can beat the whole world.

Take this and go back. I am conquered.

You got to take a deep breath and give up. The system is rigged against you.

After I lost my hearing, I gave up.

I used to feel like I was drowning. So I stopped trying to swim.

The realization that I’d have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

I'm not a fighter, I'm a bleeder.

The thing about nightmares was that you couldn't prepare for them. They sneaked up on you when you were most vulnerable.

The nice thing about true hopelessness is that you don't have to try again.

You should despair and run away.

All natural disasters are comforting because they reaffirm our impotence, in which, otherwise, we might stop believing. At times it is strangely sedative to know the extent of your own powerlessness.

Sleep is a daily reminder from God that we are not God. Once a day God sends us to bed like patients with a sickness. The sickness is a chronic tendency to think we are in control and that our work is indispensable. To cure us of this disease God turns us into helpless sacks of sand once a day.

What can I say about this move? Nothing so I won't.

I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding it's time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.

Birth is a shipwreck, the mewling infant shored on unknown land.

I’m not brave any more darling. I’m all broken. They’ve broken me.

To me, bitterness is the under-arm odor of wishful weakness. It is the graceless acknowledgment of defeat.

Well, we lost it, and that’s all there is to that.

Don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost.

I'm not choosing, but I'm running out of fight.

Defeat is a thing of weariness, of incoherence, of boredom, and above all futility.

You've probably had somebody punch you in the stomach and it knocks the wind of you and you can't breathe. That's how I felt.

Tranq'd by your own gun,"Lev says."How pathetic.