Dark Academia Book Quotes

As early as she could remember, she was escaping into books, falling into stories, cloaking herself from the great summer storms with silken words.

Though not untidy, exactly, it verged on being so. Books were stacked on every available surface; the tables were cluttered papers, ashtrays, bottles of whiskey, boxes of chocolates; umbrellas and galoshes made passage difficult in the narrow hall… Camilla’s night table was littered with empty teacups, leaky pens, dead marigolds in a water glass, and at the foot of her bed was a half-played game of solitaire… everywhere I looked was some fresh oddity: an old stereopticon, arrowheads in a dusty glass case, a staghorn fern, a bird’s skeleton…

There is a part of you I can't quite forget - where my memories grow flowers and the past outreaches my gardens gate; where the words I rather forget become a book of regret.

There is no crown without guilt.

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

Enter the players. There were seven of us, seven bright young things with wide precious futures ahead of us, though we saw no farther than the books in front of our faces. We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, all the fierce passions of the world bound in leather and vellum. The castle library was an airy octagonal room, walled with bookshelves, crowed with sumptuous old furniture, and kept drowsily warm by a monumental fireplace that burned almost constantly, regardless of the temperature outside. The clock on the mantel struck twelve, and we stirred, one by one, like seven statues coming to life.

Like you’re a book where every word fills me with such wonder that I must close it in the middle of a chapter and turn off the lights just so I have something exciting to look forward to when I next crawl into bed.

Silver may paint your words - but gold speaks in a way that outlives the greatest poets.

I'm sure we could have so much fun, but only if you learn to be good to me.

A Tom Sawyerish figure she imagined growing up on some widwestern farm, reading adventure books and butchering chickens, pulling the braids of milkmaids and leaving his hometown to travel the world; a more devout and sober Hemingway, in search of a deeper meaning, but never losing sight of where he came from.

He leaned back against the table, then gestured to all of the books in front of me. “What are you reading about, anyhow?” “Just researching ways to kill you,” I said sweetly. “Vampire Murder Methodology 101.

It was a beautiful room, not an office at all, and much bigger than it looked from outside--airy and white, with a high ceiling and a breeze fluttering in the starched curtains. In the corner, near a low bookshelf, was a big round table littered with teapots and Greek books, and there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air, mingled with the smell of bergamot, and black China tea, and a faint inky scent of camphor. Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful--Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels--a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those little Byzantine churches that are so plain on the outside; inside, the most paradisal painted eggshell of gilt and

But you bring the fire. You make even the darkness shine. Even dragon fire can’t compete with the way you burn, Pendragon.

I'm fine. I'm absolutely fine.

Conflict was what had mended their hearts, it was in their nature to be discordant before finding harmony.

Moving a corpse in the rain is such fussy, slippery business.

There is a part of you I can't entirely forget - where my memories grow flowers and our past outreaches the gates of my garden; where the words I rather forget become a book of regret.

Lee believed heartbreak was reserved to those who loved without being loved in return... She learned, that night, that heartbreakk could also exist between two hearts who yearned for each other without ever reaching one another.

The matter both intrigued and unsettled him : would both their fires keep burning bright, or would they suffocate each other, consuming all and everything around them? (...) Lee was something else, more than a simple fire; she burned like a shooting star. Enflamed, consumed from within, drifting along and brightening the horizon. Lee was as stubborn, loyal and driven as he was... lonely, yet, surrounded by people they loved, individuals who fueled their fires, gave them a reason to shine. Does fire burn fire? Could they learn to become one giant pyre?

Academia is an odd place. Stately buildings and ivy, wrought iron fences, and libraries fragrant with the smell of old books. Young people scurry to and from class, fresh, energetic, and naive. But in the long halls and narrow offices, those who work there fester in the dark like overeducated viral agents. Wet-eyed professors with obscure, irrelevant specialties and inferiority complexes browbeat students. Administrators, buffeted by faculty contempt and general inefficiency, sink into venal scheming. Any college campus is a circus, complete with color, entertainment, and the occasional glimpse of something really amazing. At Dorian University, the circus had a large number of clowns and a truly impressive freak show.

You know that I am one of the foremost living experts on the ways of the Folk," I said. I was not worried about bragging, for this was a simple statement of fact. "That is the problem," Lilja replied. "Yes, I know that you know the Folk, but there is a difference between knowing and feeling. Those of us who live among them would never trust the tall ones. For all you have read about and studied the Folk, you have never truly lived with them, dear. They are like--- like nature. Can you understand the feeling of a winter night, or a spring wind, if you have only read about it?" This was an uncomfortable echo of something Farris had said to me once. I pursed my lips and replied, "All right. Let us accept for the sake of argument that you possess a truer understanding of the Folk than I, that books and academic knowledge are secondary to lived experience. What then would you have me fear?" She hesitated. "Power," she said at last. "In our stories, it is the great ones--- the lords and ladies, the monarchs and generals, that one must avoid above all else. They are the true monsters lurking in the night." This again! I thought. Aloud I said, "I have heard a similar opinion recently from another friend of mine, who seems to think Wendell will abandon me to die of exposure or some such, I suppose when he becomes tired of me." "Oh, no!" Lilja said. "That is not what I meant--- I don't believe for a second that Wendell would harm you. But I worry there will come a day when you no longer recognize him. And what hurt is worse than that?

De waarde van haar leven lag in de verbinding met hen van wie ze hield en in de woorden die onuitgesproken bleven omdat één blik genoeg was. Het lag in de gesprekken die tot diep in de nacht doorgingen en in de handen die elkaar halsstarrig hadden vastgehouden in momenten van kwetsbaarheid. Ja, geluk was gedeelde liefde. Liefde waar zij voor gekozen had.

Outside, the campus was bustling with students, a hint of the approaching autumn on the wind, stirring the leaves that would soon lose their chlorophyll and show the world how beautiful it is to die.

Xaroth strode out as the bell rang, blood on his hands. “Tell me why the hell you skipped school?” he growled, eyes burning with anger. Orion shook his head in shame. I stared at the dragon unwavering. “Had to handle some business,” I replied, his voice steady. “And I’d do it again if it meant protecting us.

Fucking hell she was beautiful when she was angry. But not as beautiful as when she laughed.

Sometimes fear cleanses the soul, Atta. It reminds us to look at the important things we took for granted while at peace.

You’ve tangled yourself up in my soul like a vine, a stór.

I’m sorry,” she hiccuped. “I didn’t know where else to go.

she pondered how peculiar it is that something transcendent, something unparalleled, can take place and yet humans still walk, breathe, move, live the same. Things like hunger and exhaustion should cease to exist in the face of the sublime, the tragic. And yet, there they are. It felt blasphemous.

* a stór (uh stohr)—Irish Gaelic; meaning my darling, or my treasure

Winding his way through her trail of notes and open books was as wild as it was endearing. If either of them was a mad scientist, it was Atta—and he adored it.

The Great Library of Alyssium, with its soaring spires, stained-glass windows, and labyrinthine bookshelves, was the jewel of the Crescent Islands Empire. Its hallowed stacks were filled with centuries-old treatises, histories, studies, and (most importantly, in Kiela's opinion) spellbooks. Only the elite, the crème de la crème of the scholars, were allowed to even view the spellbooks, as only the rarefied few were permitted, by imperial law, to use magic.

Should I tell you then that I can’t stop thinking about you? That I haven’t thought of another woman since the first moment I saw you outside Achilles House with a corpse you’d cut open yourself?” He took her chin in his fingers. “Or how I have never thought of a woman the way I think of you?” He kissed her gently on the lips. “How I thought I was destined to be alone, but it turns out I was starving all these years, waiting for you?

Are you still jealous, a stór?” “Only of the walls of your room,” she breathed out.

A writer’s heart does not only hold scars caused by love, but also those that cross the lines of unsaid words and fully-lived, unspoken feelings. Life is merely a tragedy to a writer, something that must occur like the final line of a book, and like an ink stain that inevitably taints the fingers of a poet. Real love, too, must be attained In the same way.

What speaks slowly becomes bold.
What begins as a letter becomes a book. Whoever crosses a line is a poet.
Whoever is a poet becomes a revolt.

Xaroth rubbed his snout as smoke flew out his nostrils. “Let me tell you this, Moonberry.” He intoned, in a voice that made my blood run cold. “The path I tread is one paved with the bones of those who dared defy me. Each scar on my scales is a testament to the countless souls who have fallen before me, crushed under the weight of my wrath.” He paused, his eyes narrowing into slits, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You may see me as a tyrant, a creature of unrelenting pride, but know this: my actions are driven by a relentless pursuit of power. They are the manifestations of a soul that revels in the destruction and despair I leave in my wake.” Xaroth leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, each word laced with malice. “I have watched kingdoms burn, their glories turned to ashes. I have seen comrades, bound by honor and duty, fall in the heat of battle, their dying screams a symphony to my ears. The thrill of victory is a heady intoxication, one that fuels the darkness within me.

Poetry wasn’t in life; it was in what we’ve made of the past, lending it romanticism instead of watching it burn and lie in the ashes.