Barbara Evans Quotes

With all the conceptual truths in the universe at his disposal,” writes Barbara Brown Taylor, “[Jesus] did not give them something to think about together when he was gone. Instead, he gave them concrete things to do—specific ways of being together in their bodies—that would go on teaching them what they needed to know when he was no longer around to teach them himself . . . ‘Do this,’ he said—not believe this but do this—‘in remembrance of me.’ ”40

To be a priest,' writes Barbara Brown Taylor, 'is to know that things are not as they should be and yet to care for them the way they are.

shitticism, from Robert Frost’s description of scatological writing.

As Barbara Brown Taylor puts it, “in an age of information overload . . . the last thing any of us needs is more information about God. We need the practice of incarnation, by which God saves the lives of those whose intellectual assent has turned them dry as dust, who have run frighteningly low on the bread of life, who are dying to know more God in their bodies. Not more about God. More God.” 5

Decision brought serenity. But the work that led to that moment consisted of storm and chaos.

No one remembers Indiana Jones’s sidekick.

But here’s my theory: every human is just one good reason away from committing murder. All it takes is the right push.

Religion must pay really well,” Addie said in a low voice. “It always has,” Evan answered.

Poets were those who never meant only one thing with their words.

the nine regions of Westeros in George R. R. Martin’s epic A Song of Ice and Fire.

He didn’t bother adding what she already knew. That he wanted out of the forensics business. That he had too much other work to do. That he preferred to avoid dead bodies unless they were at least several centuries old. A month after they met, he’d told her he didn’t understand her fascination with the dead. She’d countered by telling him he was the guy who spoke twelve dead languages. “They aren’t just sticks,” Addie said. “There are weird markings on them. Like some kind of writing.” He could almost feel his own ears prick. With some guys, it was boobs or butts that got their motor running. With him, it was writing.

Every murderer creates his own story. This story may be simple or elaborate, coherent or deeply fragmented. Serial murderers often leave signs and symbols at the crime scene—messages for the police to decipher. Notes, maps, images. The posing of the body, a unique modus operandi. The killer is the riddler extraordinaire, and his narrative—the story he wishes to tell—is the enigma he presents to the detective. Someone—perhaps Nietzsche—once said that those seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music. Our job is to find the killer’s music.

Come on, Ginny. Be a love.” His breath hung in a cloud. Falconry was a humbling art. Hawks were not domestic—they were sharp-taloned, razor-beaked, feathery tufts of wildness that condescended now and again to perch upon an offered fist. While his love for the young Ginny had been instant and all-consuming, hers for him was a slow-blooming affair, a bond built on the steady accretion of trust. That, and a regular supply of raw meat.

Evan’s brain cataloged the word. Shit. From the Old English word scitte, meaning purging or diarrhea. Taboo after the sixteenth century and censored from the works of James Joyce and Hemingway. Modern derivations include shitload—a great many; shit-faced—drunk; and of course shitticism, from Robert Frost’s description of scatological writing. Thus was the curse of being a semiotician. No word too common to avoid scrutiny.

Someone had once told Addie that she went through men the way a rat terrier chewed through vermin—quickly and with ruthless efficiency. But Clay felt different. Never mind that they all felt different until, without warning, they felt like all the others.

Not at all. The presentation of the body doesn’t fit with the runes. I’m uncertain what to make of this.” “I thought you were the expert,” Patrick said. “Not at making snap decisions.

You’re a bit full of yourself for a man who can’t qualify to ride the roller coasters at Disneyland.” Evan heard Addie suck in air, but he offered a mild smile. “A man in your position should know the importance of accuracy. At fifty-three inches, I am eminently qualified to ride anything I choose.” “Is that so?” Criver

Solving a puzzle of any form was a balm to heart and soul.

Humans are very good at underestimating each other.

The problem, Addie, is that you and I are living double lives, both of us pretending to the world that the other part of us doesn’t exist. And right now, I think you’re okay with that. You like being the detective with the secret life. And the painter with a hard edge. But until you decide it’s okay for a man to see you as both an artist and a cop, you’re not likely to find yourself with Mr. Right.

A pair of coeds strolled by. Their laughter rang like bells in the cold air, giving Evan pause. Their world was the one he preferred to occupy—one of innocent pastimes. Of open futures. Of hope. It was why he enjoyed teaching. He hated murder. Death should be a dry and dusty thing. A thing of old tombs and archaeological digs. Not a mess of blood and mud and a man’s open throat.

You’re a dwarf,” he said, not meeting Evan’s eyes. “Tommy!” cried Mrs. Snow. “The correct thing to say is that I’m a person with dwarfism. Or a little person. Or a person of short stature.” “A person with dwarfism,” Tommy repeated. “Is it achondroplasia?” “Actually, no.” “But that’s the most common form of dwarfism. Seventy percent of cases.” “True. But I’m unique. One of a kind.” Tommy nodded, seeming satisfied with that. “Do people laugh at you?” “Sometimes.” “People laugh at me.” “People can be asses.

Why did love reduce its sufferers to cliché? And why could he not, like Cyrano, concoct the perfect verse that would render Addie putty in his hands? Why could he not stop thinking in clichés? Not that any of it mattered. Addie loved him. But only as a friend. She saved her romantic interest for the kind of man who could fold up someone like Evan and use him as a snot rag.

She read the titles aloud. “Bog Bodies. Bodies in the Bog. Bodies from the Bog. Am I making a leap here, or do you think we have a bog body?” “Whatever gave you that idea?” “Aren’t bog victims a little too . . . European for the cornfields of America? Not to mention anachronistic.

sinister? Question piled on question. Who had made it through his gate and to his doorstep? Was it the same person who had hacked his sound system? Was it really just an irate student who also threw axes and had something against Sten Elger? Simon reemerged with a fresh pot of tea and another plate of scones. “More for everyone?” “Please,” Evan said, grateful for the normalcy, while Christina murmured, “You’re a peach, Simon.” Simon blushed. “Just don’t tell my clients that. I prefer they think of me

Someone—perhaps Nietzsche—once said that those seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music. Our job is to find the killer’s music.

Maturity, especially in the male of the species, is both rare and commendable.

You ooze charm. It seeps from your pores like the sweetest nectar.

A child who is troubled or traumatized will look outside himself for an acceptable narrative. He (or she) will turn to the stories of others in order to give meaning and shape to his own life.

How did one launch a cannon of logic against the impenetrable fortress of insanity?

And his home, which was a safe place in a world that did not look kindly on its children when those children were different.

Until they met, Evan hadn’t realized how much of a mask he wore. Every person who falls outside the bell curve of what is defined as “normal” has to do the same—put on seemingly indestructible armor and go out to slay the dragons, be they out-of-reach coat hooks, steep stairwells, or merely the sideways glances and uneasy giggles of the ignorant.

River on a high school field trip to the city of Knossos.

But few of us stop to consider that each choice for something is a move away from something else. The word decide comes from the Latin decidere, which itself rises from the Latin de—meaning “off”—and caedere—meaning “cut.” Every choice we make is a cutting off. It is a door closed. A road not taken. It is of interest to note that the English word decide shares its suffix with homicide, genocide, and suicide. All of these words represent a cutting off. They refer to a choice we have made for ourselves. Or a choice another person has, with violence, made for us.

Someone—perhaps Nietzsche—once said that those seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music.

Remember: fate goes ever as it must. And I am your fate.

For the family we keep—whether it was one we were born into or one we created—provides a bulwark against all the darkness in the world.

Addie’s heart tore at the sight of so many helpless feathered things, forever kept from the sky.

To be a priest,” writes Barbara Brown Taylor, “is to know that things are not as they should be and yet to care for them the way they are.”38

Linnet’s girlfriends might strike my fancy.” Evan and Gideon laughed, and Evan

BIBLIOGRAPHY Often the question of which books were used for research in the Merry series is asked. So, here is a list (in no particular order). While not comprehensive, it contains the major sources. An Encyclopedia of Faeries by Katharine Briggs Faeries by Brian Froud and Alan Lee Dictionary of Celtic Myth and Legend by Miranda J. Green Celtic Goddesses by Miranda J. Green Dictionary of Celtic Mythology by Peter Berresford Ellis Goddesses in World Mythology by Martha Ann and Dorothy Myers Imel A Witches’ Bible by Janet and Stewart Farrar The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evans-Wentz Pagan Celtic Britain by Anne Ross The Ancient British Goddesses by Kathy Jones Fairy Tradition in Britain by Lewis Spense One Hundred Old Roses for the American Garden by Clair G. Martin Taylor’s Guide to Roses Pendragon by Steve Blake and Scott Lloyd Kings and Queens from Collins Gem Butterflies of Europe: A Princeton Guide by Tom Tolman and Richard Lewington Butterflies and Moths of Missouri by J. Richard and Joan E. Heitzman Dorling Kindersly Handbook: Butterflies and Moths by David Carter The Natural World of Bugs and Insects by Ken and Rod Preston Mafham Big Cats: Kingdom of Might by Tom Brakefield Just Cats by Karen Anderson Wild Cats of the World by Art Wolfe and Barbara Sleeper Beauty and the Beast translated by Jack Zipes The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm translated by Jack Zipes Grimms’ Tales for Young and Old by Ralph Manheim Complete Guide to Cats by the ASPCA Field Guide to Insects and Spiders from the National Audubon Society Mammals of Europe by David W. MacDonald Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham Northern Mysteries and Magick by Freya Aswym Cabbages and Kings by Jonathan Roberts Gaelic: A Complete Guide for Beginners The Norse Myths by Kevin Crossley Holland The Penguin Companion to Food by Alan Davidson

And only, some would say, because we’ve forgotten how to see and hear.

human tendency to see patterns and connections, even where none exist. It’s how we simplify and manage our world. Which is perfectly understandable. But it can also obscure the truth.

Show a little leg, then close the robe until the client shows their coin.

June would always be Charlotte's favorite month on Quinnipeague. She loved the frothy roil of the sea as it recovered from a day of rain, and in those early mornings, before the fog lifted and sun warmed the island, there was nothing, nothing better than a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.

Charlotte Evans was used to feeling grungy. As a freelancer, she traveled on a shoestring, getting stories other writers did not, precisely because she wasn't fussy about how she lived. In the last twelve months, she had survived dust while writing about elephant keepers in Kenya, ice while writing about the spirit bear of British Columbia, and flies while writing about a family of nomads in India.

There, on the far side of of the Atlantic, would be Maine, but despite the shared ocean, her island and this one were worlds apart. Where Inishmaan was gray and brown, its fragile man-made soil supporting only the hardiest of low-growing plants, the fertile Quinnipeague invited tall pines in droves, not to mention vegetables, flowers, and improbable, irrepressible herbs. Lifting her head, eyes closed now, she breathed in the damp Irish air and the bit of wood smoke that drifted on the cold ocean wind. Quinnipeague smelled of wood smoke, too, since early mornings there could be chilly, even in summer. But the wood smoke would clear by noon, giving way to the smell of lavender, balsam, and grass. If the winds were from the west, there would be fry smells from the Chowder House; if from the south, the earthiness of the clam flats; if from the northeast, the purity of sweet salt air.

A door in the back opened, and a sixtysomething man the same faded brown color as much of his merchandise emerged carrying a tray with tea and pastries. Not tall, gently rotund, and owning a long face bracketed by drooping earlobes, Simon Levair resembled nothing so much as a contented basset hound.