Best 18 quotes of Leslye Walton on MyQuotes

Falling out of love was much harder than Gabe would have liked. Normally led through life by the heart attached to his sleeve, finding logic in love proved to be a bit like getting vaccinated for some dread disease: a good idea in the end, but the initial pain certainly wasn’t any fun. He came to appreciate that there were worse ways to live than to live without love. For instance, if he didn’t have arms, Gabe wouldn’t be able to hide in his work. Yes, a life without arms would be quite tragic, indeed.

Fate. As a child, that word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.

Folks around here call us el destinos. They like to say we came from the stars. And when I stare up at the infinite heavens stretched out above us like a shroud, it's hard to imagine we came from anywhere else.

Folks around here like to say we came from the stars. Perhaps it's simpler to think of us not as human but as creatures made of stardust--that if you cut us, not blood but constellations will pour from out wounds.

I knew I was different, but that didn't make me as human as abyine, or was I something else?

I met someone.' And the leaves fell from the trees, landing to float in the calm black waters.

Instead of dying, instead of slowly disappearing until only a broken body remained, what happened was quite the opposite - my body began to repair itself.

I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.

She could tell when a woman was pregnant — even before the woman herself might know — just from the way she smelled: a combination of brown sugar and Stargazer lilies. Happiness had a pungent scent, like the sourest lime or lemon. Broken hearts smelled surprisingly sweet. Sadness filled the air with a salty, sea-like redolence; death smelled like sadness.

She didn't see it because when it came to love, she saw what she wanted to see.

She is the glorious reincarnation of every woman ever loved. It was her face that launched the Trojan War, her untimely demise that inspired the building of India's Taj Mahal. She is every angel in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.

She is the glorious reincarnation of every woman ever loved.

The days she was finally brought out of the house would later be remembered as a day when shadows seemed blacker, as if something more lingered in those darkened spaces.

The first bout of warm spring rain caused normally respectable women to pull off their stockings and run through muddy puddles alongside their children.

There it was again. Fate. As a child, the word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.

The whole world had given up on love anyway and clung instead to its malformed cousins: lust, narcissism, self-interest.

To many, I was myth incarnate, the embodiment of a most superb legend, a fairy tale. Some considered me a monster, a mutation. To my great misfortune, I was once mistaken for an angel. To my mother, I was everything. To my father, nothing at all.

Up here it seems we have only the stars, but even they seem small in the midst of that terrifying night sky...I suppose even monsters can be afraid of the dark.