Best 123 quotes of Seanan Mcguire on MyQuotes

Adversity doesn't exist to make us stronger. Adversity exists because this world is a damn hard place to live. Prove that you're better than the things it throws at you. Live.

ALL GLORY TO THE SCIENCE RULES OF SCIENCE!

Answers are bitter things, and once you get them, they’re yours and you can’t give them back. Did I want to know badly enough that I was willing to live with whatever answer she gave me?

Are the fae ever sane? We live in a world that isn't there half the time. We claim that windmills are giants, and because we say it, it's true. Our lives become myth and legend, until even we can't tell what we truly are from what we're told we ought to be. How can we live that way and be considered sane? My lord was never sane, but he was my love once. He always will be, somewhere. Wherever it is that the once upon a times go when they die.

As presumptive heir to one of the largest Duchies in the Kingdom of the Mists, she could have easily grown up more spoiled than any human princess. Instead she grew into the sort of little girl who's always up a tree or down a hole, a magnet for mud, queen of worms and frogs and crawling things.

Breathe. It's going to be okay." Cora took a deep breath, eyeing him. "You really think so?" "No," he said baldly. "It's never okay. But I told myself that every night when I was in Prism. I told myself that every morning when I woke up, still in Prism. And I got through, Sometimes that's all you can do. Just keep getting through until you don't have to do it anymore, however much time that takes, however difficult it is.

Brenna Kelly, meet Alice Price-Healy. Grandma, meet Breanna. No one is shooting, stabbing or immolating anyone in this hotel room." "Please," added Dominic. "I have to sleep here." "HAIL!" Rejoiced the mice. "HAIL THE LACK OF STABBING, SHOOTING AND FLAME!

But sometimes the pieces fall together the way they want to, and you can't change the story; all you can do is try to ride it out.

But you're so easy to sneak up on." He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "You should be honored that I bother, since there's no challenge to it." "Right," I said dryly. Tybalt has never made a secret of his contempt for changelings in general and me in particular. Not even the years I spent missing could change that. If anything, it made things worse, because when I came back, I promptly removed myself from all the places he was accustomed to finding me. Hating me suddenly took effort - an effort he's proved annoying glad to make. On the other hand, it's actually been something of a relief, because it is something I can count on. Dawn comes, the moon rises and Tybalt hates me.

Call me a sucker for a man who had a great ass who knows how to bake a macaroni casserole and can tolerate six hours of Sesame Street a day.

Children have always tumbled down rabbit holes, fallen through mirrors, been swept away by unseasonal floods or carried off by tornadoes. Children have always traveled, and because they are young and bright and full of contradictions, they haven’t always restricted their travel to the possible. Adulthood brings limitations like gravity and linear space and the idea that bedtime is a real thing, and not an artificially imposed curfew. Adults can still tumble down rabbit holes and into enchanted wardrobes, but it happens less and less with every year they live. Maybe this is a natural consequence of living in a world where being careful is a necessary survival trait, where logic wears away the potential for something bigger and better than the obvious. Childhood melts, and flights of fancy are replaced by rules. Tornados kill people: they don’t carry them off to magical worlds. Talking foxes are a sign of fever, not guides sent to start some grand adventure. But children, ah, children. Children follow the foxes, and open the wardrobes, and peek beneath the bridge. Children climb the walls and fall down the wells and run the razor’s edge of possibility until sometimes, just sometimes, the possible surrenders and shows them the way to go home.

Cats never listen. They’re dependable that way; when Rome burned, the emperor’s cats still expected to be fed on time.

Children would be more than a slight deviation from routine. Children would be the nuclear option where routine was concerned.

Clichés are relatives of the fairy tale, and tropes aren’t bad; they go with the territory.

Coffee and corpses, that's my life. Sometimes I hate being me.

Color is a kind of magic. He hopes people who have it understand that, and don't take it for granted.

Cool. Now get out, both of you. We have dinner in a little while, and I want to finish my book.” Kade’s smile was fleeting. “I never did like to leave a story unfinished.

Death doesn't bother me but murder makes me edgy, and my lack of weaponry suddenly felt like a potentially fatal mistake. If we got back to the hotel alive, I wasn't coming back here again without my knife and the baseball bat. And maybe a tank, if I could find one fast enough.

Don't let anyone tell you, ever, that this is a zero-sum game. Your genius does not threaten me. It delights and inspires me.

Don't mistake me for a friend because I sometimes choose to be friendly," said the Luidaeg.

Doors opened everywhere. Maybe one day, the children of this world who had gone to that world to save themselves would see a door that didn't fit right with the walls around it, something with a doorknob made of a moon, or a knocker that winked. Maybe they could still go home,

Do you always talk in driving metaphors?" "I'm a hitchhiking ghost. It was this, or talk in Disney metaphors.

Eleanor West spent her days giving them what she had never had, and hoped that someday, it would be enough to pay her passage back to the place where she belonged.

Everything did, if left long enough to its own devices. Futures, pasts, it doesn't matter. Everything fell apart.

Faeries are real. Magic is real. My tendency to greet dangerous situations by plunging in headfirst and seeing how long it takes to get myself covered head to toe in blood is also real.

For us, places we went were home. We didn't care if they were good or evil or neutral or what. We cared about the fact that for the first time, we didn't have to pretend to be something we weren't. We just got to be. That made all the difference in the world.

Going back to normal after someone had died was never easy. When that someone had been brutally killed, all bets were off.

Have we reached the point where my intervention will not get me shouted at for being a meddling tomcat who doesn't respect the boundaries of others?" Tybalt stepped out of the shadows behind the Candela, tightening his hand around her throat. "I ask to be polite, you realize. There's no way I'm walking away.

He sounded so tired and so earnest. I worried my lips between my teeth before asking, "Does this have anything to do with what you told me before?" Tybalt blinked. Then he snorted a brief laugh, and asked, "October, in the years since your return ... has anything not been in some way related to what I told you before? You handed me a hope chest in a dark alley. You took my heart as collateral, and you've never returned it.

He was a hero once, and it's the nature of heroes to throw themselves headlong into impossible odds, believing that somehow they'll come through them alive. The problem is that it's also in the nature of heroes to die, and I had no way of being sure that Sylvester didn't plan to do exactly that. I should know how heroes are. Somewhere along the way, I became one.

He was still so very young. Faeries—true faeries, not their changeling throwaways—live forever, and when you have an eternity of adulthood ahead of you, you linger over childhood. You tend it and keep it close to your heart, because once it ends, it’s over. Quentin was barely fifteen. He’d never seen the Great Hunt that came down every twenty-one years, or been present for the crowning of a King or Queen of Cats, or announced his maturity before the throne of High King Aethlin. He was a child, and he should have had decades left to play; a century of games and joy and edging cautiously toward adulthood. But he didn’t. I could see his childhood dying in his eyes as he looked at me, silently begging me to answer for him.

Homecomer, hitcher, phantom rider, White lady wants what’s been denied her, Gather-grim knows what you fear the most, But best keep away from the crossroads ghost.

Homecomer, hitcher, phantom rider, White lady wants what’s been denied her, Gather-grim knows what you fear the most, But best keep away from the crossroads ghost. Talk to the poltergeist, talk to the haunt, Talk to the routewitch if it’s what you want. Reaper’s in the parlor, seizer’s in a host, But you’d best keep away from the crossroads ghost. - common clapping rhyme among the ever-lasters of the twilight

Hope means you keep holding on to things that won't ever be so again.

Hope means you keep on holding to things that won't ever be so again, and so you bleed an inch at a time until there's nothing left.

Hope only got you hurt. Hope was her least favourite thing, of all the things.

Horns honked all around us, and our fellow drivers seemed concerned about my education, as they were introducing me to all manner of exciting hand gestures. Some of them were even new to me. I pointed to one of them. "Look, Dominic. We're learning new things.

How quickly they grow apart, when there is something to be superior about.

I am so tired of this gothic crap,” I muttered. “Just once, I want to meet the villain in a cheerful, brightly lit room. Possibly one with kittens.

I am what I am, and there's much about me that won't be changed with any amount of wishing or wanting. I'm sorry for that. I'd trade a great deal to share an afternoon in the hay with you, dust in the air and sweat on our skins and neither of us caring. But I'm afraid the experience would drive me mad. I am a creature of sterile environments. It's too late for me to change.

I could give you children,” said Jack, sounding faintly affronted. “You’d have to tell me how many heads you wanted them to have, and what species you’d like them to be, but what’s the point of having all these graveyards if I can’t give you children when you ask for them?

I didn't look back. Sometimes, not looking back is the only mercy the world has left to show.

If anyone was going to get themselves murdered to guarantee they would remain the center of attention, it would be him.

I feel like a giant Barbie." "I do not become romantically involved with plastic people," said Tybalt dryly.

If it had been my decision, you would still be sleeping, and I would be hoping every hour of every night you lived was filled with the foulest of dreams.” “My only nightmare in this moment is the quality of the mattress you saw fit to place me on,” said Simon. “Really, brother, have you never heard of lumbar support?

If I were going to kill her for her eyes, I would have done it in ten years, after I was nicely established as the head of research and development for a biotech firm big enough to make murder charges just go away. Killing her now benefits me not at all.

If something happened to Gillian, I'd rip the world down to save her, even if she spat in my face when I did. That's what parenthood means.

If you want to help her, you need to help yourself first. No one serves their friends by grinding themselves into dust on the altar of compassion.

If you wish to find your answers, you’ll need to begin thinking, not merely reacting. -- Lily

I had no idea what was going on, but I knew that fighting Tybalt wouldn't get me out of the darkness. It would strand me there.