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I’d heard he had started a fistfight in one of the seedier local taverns because someone had insisted on saying the word “utilize” instead of “use. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

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In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. ↗

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Sir, this lane is for ten items or less. I’m counting thirteen items in your cart, including that hemorrhoid cream. And while hemorrhoids might give you a reason to be nasty, they don’t give you a reason to be in this lane. ↗

— J.A. Konrath

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What do you know of poetry?” Ambrose said without bothering to turn around. “I know a limping verse when I hear it,” I said. “But this isn’t even limping. A limp has rhythm. This is more like someone falling down a set of stairs. Uneven stairs. With a midden at the bottom.” “It is a sprung rhythm,” he said, his voice stiff and offended. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” “Sprung?” I burst out with an incredulous laugh. “I understand that if I saw a horse with a leg this badly ‘sprung,’ I’d kill it out of mercy, then burn its poor corpse for fear the local dogs might gnaw on it and die. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

#kindlehighlight

The feeling I have reminds me of New Year’s Eve, when the countdown is coming and I’m not quite sure whether to grab my camera or just live in the moment. Usually I grab the camera and later regret it when the picture doesn’t turn out. Then I feel enormously let down and think to myself that the night would have been more fun if it didn’t mean quite so much, if I weren’t forced to analyze where I’ve been and where I’m going. ↗

— Emily Giffin

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Donny recovered herself. “Dude, that was the seventh sign of the apocalypse. I’m so not going to class on the last day of the world. ↗

— Gwen Hayes

#apocalypse

There are at least four distinct lines of proof in the Bible that the Holy Spirit is a person. ↗

— R.A. Torrey

#holy-spirit

He who hurries through life hurries to his grave. ↗

— George R.R. Martin

#life

But Marisa already knew the answer and it was too late for recrimination. The chance of even a rational discussion of the problem was forever shut out of Mama’s brain. A brutal bastard was steadily sucking the intelligence and the very life from the mother who had once been witty, wise and loving. The scourge had a name Marisa had come to equate with hell: Alzheimer’s Disease. ↗

— Anna Jeffrey

#intelligence

L'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle ↗

— Cassandra Clare

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