Olivier Quotes

The problem with knowledge, is its inexhaustible craving. the more of it you have, the less you feel you know

Can you love my brain even when it is small? When it is malevolent? When it is violent? Can you love it even when it does not love me?

they were binary stars, trapped in each other’s gravitational field and easily diminished without the other’s opposing force

The moral of this story is: Beware the man who faces you unarmed. If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.

Really, there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

A flaw of humanity,” said Parisa, shrugging. “The compulsion to be unique, which is at war with the desire to belong to a single identifiable sameness.

The day you are not a fire,” he said, “is the day the earth will fall still for me.

I could study you for a lifetime, carrying all your peculiarities and discretions in the webs of my spidery palms, and still feel empty-handed

She is in all of his spaces and all of his thoughts. He contemplates formulas and degrees of rationality and they all turn into her. He thinks about time, which has only recently begun, or at least now feels different. He thinks: the Babylonians were wrong; time is made of her.

We are the gods of our own universes, aren't we? Destructive ones.

Knowledge is carnage. You can’t have it without sacrifice.

If this is what it is to burn, he thought, then I will be worth more as scattered ash than any of my unscathed pieces.

You are brilliant. Tell your mind to be kind to you today.

If not for her, Nico might not have noticed most of the things he did, and probably vice versa. A uniquely upsetting curse, really, how little he knew how to exist when she wasn’t there.

Dan bila ada hal yang membahagiakan sekaligus menyedihkan untuk dipikirkan, itu adalah masa lalu yang indah... -Kay Olivier

I know exactly what shape she takes up in the universe,' he pleaded in explanation. 'If anyone can recognize her, it's me.

Whatever you are made of, Charlotte Regan, I am made of it, too.

we are empty and trying to fill, lighting ourselves on fire just to prove that we are normal—that we are ordinary. That we, like anything, can burn

I want you to say everything, anything. I want to have your thoughts, I want to bottle them, I want to put them in my drawer for safekeeping.

I like it,” he said. “What?” He loosened the wine from his lips. “Your brain.

Depending who viewed it, Persephone had either been stolen or she had run from Demeter. Either way, she made herself queen.

So when people say we¡re alone in the ether?" "Alone in everything. In time and space, in existence, in religion.

Funny how that worked; the innocent fragility of being human. There were so many ways to break and so few of them heroic or noble.

When you learn a new word, you suddenly see it everywhere. The mind comforts itself by believing this to be coincidence but isn’t—it’s ignorance falling away. Your future self will always see what your present self is blind to. This is the problem with mortality, which is in fact a problem of time.

it is perilously wonderful to suffer so sweetly with you.

It was the kind of look that reminded him she’d set him on fire the first time she’d met him without even batting an eye. He’d like her more if she did it more often.

For every sensation Regan could conjure, there was an artist who had beautifully suffered the same.

You're a fire hazard, Rhodes," he said. "So stop apologizing for the damage and just let the fucker burn.

I am more addicted to the thought of your name on my tongue than I am to any other form of vice.

You wouldn't make love with him, you'd make art.

Don’t envy me, Reina,” she advised softly, turning to say it in Reina’s ear. “Fear me.

Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs. Mullet's seed biscuits the way Saint Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table, and with a sausage on the end of a fork as my scepter, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, 'Will no one rid us of this turbulent pastry cook?

A kiss is the prize?’ he asked sadly. ‘Even more than giving me the rest of you? It should be the other way round, Princess. In the real world, it's called courting. You let a lad kiss you and then you offer him more.’ ‘Let me tell you something, Olivier,’ she said with tears of sorrow in her eyes, ‘this is my real world.

The problem with knowledge, is it's inexhaustible craving. the more of it you have, the less you feel you know

You don’t have to be sorry for existing, you know,

Instead she thinks: I love him, and for a moment it doesn't matter whether he loves her back. It is enough to have known that the inside of her chest is more than a place for storage.

The world was mostly entropy and chaos; magic, then, was order, because it was control.

he doesn't want to be the person she hides from, he wants to be the person she hides with.

The world loved to take a beautiful woman and exclaim at the charm of her single imperfection

I’ve got you, Rhodes. From here on, I swear.

What are we celebrating?” “Our fragile mortality,” Tristan said. “The inevitability that we will descend into chaos and dust.

Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?” she asked him softly.

There are no perfect circles, Regan. Yes, there’s one, and it’s this one: They fall in love because they’re always in love. That’s circular, not a circle. He can believe whatever he wants; she knows it’s a perfect circle.

Lhiver, impian itu harus tinggi. Kalau kau hanya menginginkan uang 600 franc, kau tidak akan pernah bisa mendapatkan 600.000 franc. -Kay Olivier

So this is what it is to love something you cannot control, he thought. It felt precisely like terror.

She made devastation look like riches, like jewels.

So when people say were alone in the ether?" "Alone in everything. In time and space, in existence, in religion.

We’re all starving, but not everyone is doing it correctly. Some people are taking too much, making themselves sick, and it kills them. The excess is poison; even food is a poison to someone who’s been deprived. Everything has the capacity to turn toxic. It’s easy, so fucking easy to die, so the ones who make themselves something are the same ones who learn to starve correctly.

There is a difference between what we are capable of and how we choose to use it.

He kisses her, thinks, Go on, ruin me. Wreck me, please. She kisses him back and she does.

Hate and love were so very similar. Both were intestinal, visceral. Both left scars, vestiges of pain. Hate could not be born from a place of indifference. Hate was only born from opposite sides of the same coin.

Because we have agreed, collectively, that to proceed without knowledge or understanding is a stupid kind of bravery, an impulsive kind of blindness, but that to be alone without wonder or curiosity is to chip away any possible value we might discover in existing.

Deities themselves had changed over time, but the act of devotion had not.

People who lined up to see the Mona Lisa typically couldn’t name the paintings hanging nearby, and there was nothing wrong with that.

To know what people really are and not destroy them is savagely remarkable. She has exceptional restraint.

There was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

Ambition was such a dirty word, so tainted, but she had it. She was enslaved by it. There was so much ego to the concept of fate, but she needed to cling to it. She needed to believe she was meant for enormity; that the fulfillment of a destiny could make for the privilege of salvation, even if it didn't feel that way right now.

Many people incorrectly assume time to be a steady incline, a measured arc of growth and progress, but when history is written by the victors the narrative can often misrepresent that shape.

I will always love you, I will love you until the day I die— and if you’re the one to kill me, then by all means, you should know without a trace of doubt you will not have turned me away. I will have spent the final beat of my heart loving you, just as I always have. Only you, Masha. Only you, forever, I promise.

Things are so much sweeter when they have an ending; things are so much more painful when they can be ripped away.

Nothing anyone sees is real; only how they perceive it.

It was at moments like this, high enough to inhale the promise of risk, that the whittled lines of city streets brought out his lingering melancholy; that l'appel du vide, the call of the void.

One thing at a time. Murder first and then scholarly pursuits.

You know why you don’t understand me?” Parisa answered Reina’s thoughts, stepping closer to lower her voice. “Because you think you’ve figured me out. You think you’ve met me before, other versions of women like me, but you have no idea what I am. You think my looks are what make me? My ambitions? You can’t begin to know the sum of my parts, and you can stare all you like, but you won’t see a damn thing until I show you.

Money couldn’t buy happiness, but nothing could buy happiness, so at least money could buy everything else.

We all have our own curses. Our own blessings.” Callum’s smile faltered. “We are the gods of our own universes, aren’t we? Destructive ones.

Eventually she looked down at her empty hands and thought: Damn it. Damn it, I love him. Then, after the smoke cleared, she could see nothing else.

She couldn't prevent the urge to know his thoughts, She wanted to lace them between her fingers, to root them in her hands, to twine them around her limbs until he'd secured her within the invisible web of his carefully ordered madness.

Things were always stranger in retrospect, which was a funny little consequence of time.

There is nothing so destructive as thought, and especially not one that can never be rescinded.

It was the kind of look that reminded him she’d set him on fire the first time she’d met him without even batting an eye. He’d like her more if she did it more often.

The past is nothing. We are everything.

Sometimes my eyes open and I know, somewhere in my bones, that I have formed myself to the shape of waking up beside you.

It frustrated him immensely that he would never be able to prove that time didn't stop when she met his eye.

Pretty, that's what you think this is? You think that's all she's capable of? You fool, she's done the impossible. She has explained everything there is to know about the world in less than the time it took for your eyes to filly focus, and do you realize that I will spend a lifetime trying to do the same never come close? This is an opus!, this is a triumph!, this is the meaning of life and you would think the answer would be satire, but it isn't, its Truth. She tomd the Truth like you could never dream of telling it, and I pity you, that you could see the inside of your own soul and reduce it like this, so pitylessly. So carelessly.

Men, conceptually, are canceled,” Libby said to her knees. “This Society? Founded by men, I guarantee it. Kill someone for initiation? A man’s idea. Totally male.

More interesting than the game is always the players, you know.

And so where there had once been six were now, irreversibly, one.

Gideon, for fuck’s sake, I’m rich and extremely handsome,” Nico growled. “Do you think I have my own problems? No, I do not, so let me have yours. Put me to use, I beg you.

If I were going to ask someone for help, Rhodes, it would have been you.

Every single one of us is missing something. We are all too powerful, too extraordinary, and don't you see it's because we're riddled with vacancies? We are empty and trying to fill, lighting ourselves on fire just to prove that we are normal - that we are ordinary. That we, like anything, can burn.

Karma was routinely misrepresented as the scales of justice when really, it was a matter of eternal continuity.

That old reflex never died; the little pang of Don't go, just stay. Settle over me like the tide, cover me like a blanket, wrap around me like the sun. Don't go, don't go, don't go.

That was the distasteful thing about villains, really. Not the manner in which they went about their business, which was certainly gruesome and morally corrupt, but the fact that they desired things so intensely.

Is it too late to love you, Lev Fedorov?” she asked him, her hands finding his, and he shook his head, pulling her with him. “Sasha, it’s never too late for us

Empires have fallen like this, he thinks, but it only makes him want her more, makes him look at his hands and think, My god, what a waste of time doing anything else but holding her. What a waste, and then he says aloud, JesusfuckingChrist what have you done to me? And she says, Kiss me.

My daughters are diamonds, as Yaga so often said. Nothing is more beautiful. Nothing shines brighter. And most importantly, nothing will break them.

She was afraid, always, except when she was proving herself.

She'd given him arrows and he'd shot, and now parts of her were gaping holes, flayed and filleted and left behind as open wounds.

Do you think they know what it means to love?" his projection-self mused aloud to him. "That it isn't the simple joy of fondness, I mean. In fact it's violent, destructive. It means to cut the heart out of your chest and give it to someone else.

I went to him in the doorway and embraced him tightly. "Thank you," I whispered. "You've done so much for us, and we've done nothing for you." "Don't say that." Vic's hands patted my back. "You're my friends. Nothing else to it.

Sashneka,” Marya said, “you are not incomplete because a piece of your heart is gone. You are you, an entire whole, all on your own. If you have loved and been loved, then you are richer for it; you don't simply become a smaller version of yourself simply because what you once had is gone.

I forgave him the moment he came back to me. I would love him still, even if he left me again. I would love him through several lifetimes, I think," Fox determined, resigning himself to the truth, "and I would love him in every world, if he asked.

Every time you love, pieces of you break off and get replaced by something you steal from someone else. It seems like it’s the right shape but it’s slightly different every time, so that eventually, very very quietly and over days and days and days, you are transformed into something unrecognizable, and it happens so slowly you don’t even notice, like shedding scales and making new ones.

The trouble with knowledge, the idiosyncrasy of its particular addiction, was that it was not the same as other types of vice. Because knowledge was not chemical, was not physical or hormonal or easily within reach, someone given a taste of omniscience could never be satisfied by the contents of a bare reality without it

If I ever decide to give my heart to you, Dima, she’d said, holding his hand palm up, then cut it out of my chest and keep it somewhere safe, where no one else can get to it. Keep it locked somewhere, she murmured, repeating the old stories as she brushed her lips against the lines of his palm: Inside a needle, inside of an egg, which is inside of a duck, which is inside a hare, which is in an iron chest—and then bury it under our green oak tree, Dima, where no one will ever find it. Keep it safe for me, Dima, will you?

I don’t want to rule the world, I don’t want to control it, I don’t even want to influence it. I want to sit beside you in a little garden, I want to put your needs before mine, I want to fetch you a glass of water when you’re thirsty. I want to laugh at your jokes, even the bad ones, and bury my head in proverbial sand.

He would come to share her joys until he could no longer separate them from his own, and then one day, maybe turning to her at a party or rushing to ask in a text message, he would say: What's that thing I like? And she would know the answer. She would know everything. Eventually, all the answers to all that he was would be cradled in the palms of her hands.

We can’t help clinging to our origins, Callum said. The past always seems more ordered, Rhodes. It always seems clearer, more straightforward, easier to understand. We have a craving for it, that sense of simplicity, but only an idiot would ever chase the past, because our perception of it is false—it was never that the world was simple. Just that in retrospect it could be known, and therefore understood.

I wish to feel something much, much larger than I am, the girl’s heart replies. I wish to stand on the edge of ruination and defeat, to leap into a chasm full of danger. I wish to feel my blood turn cold with fear and my cheeks burn bright with shame; I wish to feel joy that fills my lungs, and sadness that swells within me like a current. I wish to feel so much and so deeply that it washes over me in waves. I wish to drag myself towards something; I wish to lose pieces of myself along the way. I wish for hunger that drives me, for passion that fulfills me, for sensations of taking and having and losing and wanting, and I wish for all of it to come with a price, and a steep one—and then I wish for the courage to pay. Isn’t it all good because it’s something? she asks. Isn’t it all bad because beneath it—any of it, her wish sighs—I may collapse? Mayra