Laini Taylor Quotes

In drama, the characters should determine the story. In melodrama, the story determines the characters.

The desert wears... a veil of mystery. Motionless and silent it evokes in us an elusive hint of something unknown, unknowable, about to be revealed. Since the desert does not act it seems to be waiting -- but waiting for what?

What was going on inside of me became louder because everything around me became quieter.

A short story is. . .frequently the celebration of character at bursting point.

If a person survives an ordinary span of sixty years or more, there is every chance that his or her life as a shapely story has ended and all that remains to be experienced is epilogue. Life is not over, but the story is.

By telling my own story, I hope to help remove the stigma. It never should be something to hide.

I couldn't hear a thing in the world but you. And it was so cold then, and so silent, and I loved you so much. Now it's hot and dead quiet again, and I love you still.

I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.

I had to wait for someone special. Someone who would make my heart feel as if it's been trampled by elephants, thrown into the amazon, and eaten by piranhas.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

Every heart is made of stories.

She learned the intricacy of loneliness: the horror of color, the roar of soundlessness and the menace of familiar objects lying still.

By coming forward and sharing your story, you don't know the countless lives you change.

When you're putting together a story, sometimes you just have to skip over the boring bits.

I cop a fair bit of flack for going from 'such a babe to such a boy'. I wanted to share (that) story.

Yesterday was a closed book, tomorrow, however, was another story.

If i were to lose my memories, I would rely on music. There is so much of my story embedded in each.

Even sound seemed to fail in this air, like the air was worn out with carrying sounds so long.

As a kid I couldn't afford any Jordans, so I didn't get my first pair until my last year of high school. They were Air Jordan 9s.

My fall began, as many stories do, with a girl.

The darkness grew apace; a cold wind began to blow in freshening gusts from the east, and the showering white flakes in the air increased in number. From the edge of the sea came a ripple and whisper. Beyond these lifeless sounds the world was silent. Silent? It would be hard to convey the stillness of it. All the sounds of man, the bleating of sheep, the cries of birds, the hum of insects, the stir that makes the background of our lives - all that was over.

Until now, he has never told the full story of his life, in his own voice.

I do not over-intellectualise the production process. I try to keep it simple: Tell the damned story.

But it was too early to know: there were always more pages to go, more words to be written, before the story was over.

In the city of flesh I travel without maps, a worried tourist: and Ottilie was a very Venice. I stumbled lost in the blue shade of her pavements. Here was a dreamy stillness, a swaying, the splash of an oar. Then, when I least expected it, suddenly I stepped out into the great square, the sunlight, and she was a flock of birds scattering with soft cries in my arms.