Best 15 quotes of Shirley Rousseau Murphy on MyQuotes

And Anwin said, "It turned out just as an enchantment should." "But Anwin, it wasn't an enchantment really, it just—" "Yes, child, it was the greatest enchantment of all." He winked at the prince. "Gillie understood all along what the enchantment was.

And just as Catskin went to the ball, and Cendrillon, and Aschenputtel, so must you. The ball that will be given soon in the palace; I've heard talk of it in the kitchens. The servants say one is held each year. Have you never gone?" She shook her head. "Then you must go this year dressed in a fine gown as it is done in the stories." She sat staring at him. "Me, Gillie? I don’t belong at the ball." "As much as Cinderella did." "But they are only stories; they’re not things that can happen." She studied him for a long time. He did not seem to be making a joke. "It's what you dream, Thursey. You should do what you dream of doing, else where is the good in dreaming?

[At the scene of a murder] The cats' bloodthirst was normal; it was the way God had made them. They were hunters, they killed for food and to train their young--well maybe sometimes for sport. But this violent act by some unknown human had nothing to do with hunting--for a human to brutally maim one of the own kind out of rage or sadism or greed was, to Joe and Dulcie (the cats), a shocking degradation of the human condition. To imagine that vicious abandon in a human deeply distressed Dulcie; she did not like thinking about humans that way.

Crystal shoes And a mare to ride on, A milk white mare, And a silver woven in my hair.

Gillie caught Delilah's hand before it struck, and held it firmly in his own. He stared at her for a long time, but said nothing. Then at last he spoke softly, "Don't you hurt her. Not ever. If you ever hurt her I will come back and witch you, old trollop, and you will wish you had never been born." His words were so soft, so measured, and so filled with meaning that a shiver went through the room.

Gillie was grinning at the boy's indignant anger. He put a hand on the pages shoulder and looked coldly at Augusta. "Do you call my page a liar, old woman? And who are you to speak of this lady as your charge? My page is no liar, just as Thursey is not your charge. Not in any way. She is your landlord, for it is her inn you occupy. And it is to her you will answer for its keeping. She is beholden to no one, unless it would be the people of Gies in the same manner as I am—for she may be their princess soon. If she is willing," he added gently.

If it occurred to Thursey that there was really no relationship between marrying your own true love and having a fortune showered upon you, she didn't bother about that. In a story you might as well have both, it was make-believe anyway. But if I had to choose, she thought. If I had to choose . . . she stared at her ragged dress hanging from its hook, and her ragged mended sandals on the shelf, then put the books away. How would I ever have such a choice, except in a made-up story?

I have continued to come here for that kind of aloneness, so very different from being lonely with someone.

I hope people don't take kittens on a whim, like they would a toy, then not care for them.

Sometimes she could swear that she saw, in Joe Grey's eyes, a judgment far too perceptive, a watchfulness too aware and intense for any cat. Charlie didn't understand what it was about those two [cats]. Both had a presence that set them apart from other felines. Maybe she just knew them better. Maybe all cats had that quality of awareness, when you knew them.

The castle always looks so mysterious," she said, awed. "Is it wonderful, living there?" "It isn’t so mysterious when you're there. I'd rather look at it from the hills. It's just—full of people, at least the servants' parts are, crowded and ordinary. Things should be mysterious, but there's nothing mysterious in the palace." "Should things be mysterious?" "There's mystery in the hills and in the wind on the grass. And in the stories you like. Isn't life mysterious?

The swamp roses, Gillie. It was the mare found them. She—if she hadn't run off—it was almost as if she meant me to see them." "Are you saying? . . ." "I don't know what I’m saying. Yes," she cried, a gay silliness taking her. Drunk with the music and the dancing, drunk with his closeness, she laughed up at him. It was just as in the stories, a kind of magic just like . . ." and then she stared at him, confounded.  "Just like what?"  "But in the stories . . ."  "In the stories . . . what?”  "In the stories . . ."  "In the stories there’s a prince," Gillie answered quietly. He held her away then. "So the story has come true.

We will get you a dress with magic, just as in the stories," he said seriously. "But they're only stories, Gillie, Magic isn’t real."  "We will make it real.

You prepare as best you can for the bad times- then live every moment with joy.

You shall have," Gillie said, "the king's bread and goat milk." "The magical goat milk?" "The same." "Will it make me beautiful?" "It cannot. You are already that.