Best 34 quotes of G. Willow Wilson on MyQuotes

Conscience. Conscience is the ultimate measure of a man.

Controversy is what mediocre people start because they can't communicate anything meaningful.

Dear child, some stories have no morals. Sometimes darkness and madness are simply that.

I have had much experience with the unclean and uncivilized in the recent past. Shall I tell you what I discovered? I am not the state of my feet. I am not the dirt on my hands or the hygiene of my private parts. If I were these things, I would not have been at liberty to pray at any time since my arrest. But I did pray, because I am not these things. In the end, I am not even myself. I am a string of bones speaking the word God.

Many of us prefer to live in places abandoned by humans. Less work for us. Detroit is very popular.

Once you discover that the world rewards reckless faith, no lesser world is worth contemplating.

The censors don't bother with fantasy books, especially old ones. They can't understand them. They think it's all kids' stuff. They'd die if they knew what The Chronicles of Narnia were really about.

you can't really separate modernity from history or spiritual concerns from mundane ones. Everything feeds into everything else.

All translations are made up" opined Vikram, "Languages are different for a reason. You can't move ideas between them without losing something

Be careful with this one" said Dina, bending down to greet the cat. "All cats are half jinn, but I think she's three quarters.

But you can’t go through a pilgrimage and not come out changed.

Converts are a favourite pray of fundamentalists they are often isolated, confused and in need of reassurance which radical muslims are only to happy to give.

Dear child, some stories have no morals. Sometimes darkness and madness are simply that." "How terrible," said Farukhuaz. "Do you think so? I find it reassuring. It saves me from having to divine meaning in every sorrow that comes my way.

Festivals and fasts are unhinged, traveling backward at a rate of ten days per year, attached to no season. Even Laylat ul Qadr, the holiest night in Ramadan, drifts--its precise date is unknown. The iconclasm laid down by Muhammed was absolute: you must resist attachment not only to painted images, but to natural ones. Ramadan, Muharram, the Eids; you associate no religious event with the tang of snow in the air, or spring thaw, or the advent of summer. God permeates these things--as the saying goes, Allah is beautiful, and He loves beauty--but they are transient. Forced to concentrate on the eternal, you begin to see, or think you see, the bones and sinews of the world beneath its seasonal flesh. The sun and moon become formidable clockwork. They are transient also, but hint at the dark planes that stretch beyond the earth in every direction, full of stars and dust, toward a retreating, incomprehensible edge

...God bless the man who first taught the world how to cure olives. He and the man who invented cheese are two unsung pillars of civilization." "They were probably women," muttered Fatima, fanning her face with the sleeve of her robe. "If they were men, we would remember their names.

Good is not a thing you are. It is a thing you do.

He's holding my hand! A boy is holding my hand! This is happening! I should let go. I should blush and act shy. Like a girl from the movies. But that's not what I do. I hold on.

How dense and literal it is. I thought it had a much more sophisticated brain." "Your mother is dense," Alif said wearily. "My mother was an errant crest of sea foam. But that is neither here nor there.

I suppose every innovation started out as a fantasy.

It's not the size of the girl in the fight that counts... it's the size of the fight in the girl! -MISS MARVEL

Metaphors: knowledge existing in several states and without contradiction

Nobody as the right to give up on a whole generation before it's even had a right to prove itself.

No," said Dina. "We don't burn books." "Who's we?" "People with an ounce of brain.

So the stories aren't just stories, is what you're saying. They're really secret knowledge disguised as stories." "One could say that of all stories, younger brother.

The few Americans he had encountered in his lifetime had all seemed flat to him, as if freedom weakened one's capacity for intense emotion by demanding too little of it.

The force that played havoc with the cortisol in my blood was the same force that helped my body recover; if I felt better one day and worse the next, it was unchanged. It chose no side. It gave the girl next to me in the hospital pneumonia; it also gave her white blood cells that would resist the infection. And the atoms in those cells, and the nuclei in those atoms, the same bits of carbon that were being spun into new planets in some corner of space without a name. My insignificance had become unspeakably beautiful to me. That unified force was a god too massive, too inhuman, to resist with the atheism in which I had been brought up. I became a zealot without a religion.

The only power worth a snot is the power to get up after you fall down.

There is so a real poem," said Fatima, annoyed. "The real Conference of the Birds was written by someone, by a real person. He had certain intentions. I want to know what they are. He wrote the poem for a reason, and the reason matters." "Does it?" Vikram stretched his toes, revealing a row of claws as black as obsidian. "Once a story leaves the hand of its author, it belongs to the reader. And the reader may see any number of things, conflicting things, contradictory things. The author goes silent. If what he intended matter so very much, there would be no need for inquisitions, schisms and wars. But he is silent, silent. The author of the poem is silent, the author of the world is silent. We are left with no intentions but our own.

There's always that one group of people who think they have special permission to terrorize anybody who disagrees with them. And then everybody who looks like them suffers.

What naive garbage. People don't want freedom anymore--even those to whom freedom is a kind of religion are afraid of it, like trembling acolytes who make sacrifices to some pagan god. People want their governments to keep secrets from them. They want the hand of law to be brutal. They are so terrified by their own power that they will vote to have it taken out of their hands. Look at America. Look at the sharia states. Freedom is a dead philosophy, Alif. The world is returning to its natural state, to the rule of the weak by the strong. Young as you are, it's you who are out of touch, not me.

Whore," he spat at her. "If I am a whore for resisting you," she said through her teeth, "what would I have been for giving in?" "Whore," he said again.

Why are kids like me always being drafted into wars we didn't start?

You have such an odd relationship to your environment," mused the man. "Such a paranoid relationship. You seem intent on existing in smaller and smaller spaces, filled with more and more gadgets, with the mistaken impression that this will give you more control over your lives. There's something a little impious about it." "Nothing wrong with gadgets," muttered Alif. "No, except that they're not magic," said the man, "and a lot of you seem to believe they should be.

You know those day you sometimes have? The days that seem totally ordinary when you wake up, but by the time you go to sleep that night, your whole life is divided into before that day and after that day? This is one of those days.