Fiona Wood Quotes

We look at each other with shy relief. It's the look two odd socks give when they recognise each other in the wild.

Stress level: extreme. It's like she was a jar with the lid screwed on too tight, and inside the jar were pickles, angry pickles, and they were fermenting, and about to explode.

My problems are like waves - just as one disappears with a snarl and a hiss there’s another shaping up to knock me down.

Something large and happy has unfolded in my chest, erupting in a smile that won’t quit. I can’t remember ever feeling so light-hearted. Or is my heart full? Or bursting? Not aching, that’s for sure.

There's this sky I know

... you cow,' Estelle added. 'I heard that.' 'Give the woman the geriatric audiology medal,' Estelle said. 'I heard that, too', her mother said, from the other side of the door.

Never listen to fools who dis Jane Eyre as being a story about a girl who gets her mean man. This is a character who gets what she wants and lives on her own terms by having moral fortitude, intelligence, courage, imagination and a will of iron. And that is one hell of a checklist. Imagine Charlotte Brontë writing this book in 1847. What a powerful story for women living at that time!

Guys, please, one life-changing shock at a time, I felt like saying.

It’s the look two odd socks give when they recognise each other in the wild.

Mothers are generally starvers or feeders

REVISITING THE LIST 1. Kiss Estelle Okay, at least I've met her. She thinks I'm a creep. And that's withought her knowing I've read her diaries. Unless we somehow fall over, exactly aligned, lip to lip, and gravity causes the pressure, or we find ourselves in a darkened room and through a series of Shakespearian ID muddles she thinks she's kissing someone else, I can't say how this is ever going to happen.

As usual, I don't know which way is north, but I know the direction of beauty.

My heart is its own fierce country where no one else is welcome.

Fred is staying with his mother these holidays. She's living in London for six months, in Chelsea, studying Georgian underwear at the National Art Library. It's a thesis, not a fetish.

Starkly in an instant she saw herself as she really was-alone in a wood standing among blue shadows with no sounds and the air a sort of black ice. She had no coat. All the people she’d known had forgotten her. Her mother, biting off thread between her teeth, couldn’t hear her, and her father with his eyes turned sorrowfully inward did not see her. They never had. Those she loved did not need her. Lila and Carl danced together in a bubble. Ralph Eastman picked lint from his sleeve. Buddy tucked in his shirttails, jumped in a truck and drove away. Fiona Speed showed the back of her hat, heading downtown in a cab. They all had more important concerns, they were all in their own lives, and there was no room for her. At night their doors were shut and through lit windows she could see them consulting one another, checking the baby, looking after business, licking envelopes, turning back the bedcover, shutting off the light switch, while she was left stranded out in the chill night in the true human state, lost, in the dark, alone.

Vân Uoc decided that she too would get to know the book inside out. And something miraculous happened when they were about a quarter of the way through reading it. After weeks of ploughing and hesitating, something clicked; she stopped stumbling over the unknown words and long sentences. Words magically started to reveal meaning, most of the time anyway, through context. And the sentences themselves stopped being obstacles and started telling a story. Her eyes were racing ahead; she was comprehending the shape and rhythm of the language.

Van Uoc felt the stab of a sad truth: she and her mother would never be as close as her mother and grandmother had been. Her mother got up, stretched her tidy, graceful frame and headed for the kitchen. Van Uoc wanted to be able to offer her some comfort, but what could she say? Her mother was right. The two of them represented an irreconcilable cultural split. Distance between them was inevitable.

5. Oliver, in short, is an anally retentive fuckwit.

Almost the entire world relies on other people's opinions to tell them what to think.

I'm floating. The absence of pain is powerful.

I don't think I fully appreciated how relaxing it is having someone I can be really mean to. It's going to be so hard being nice all the time.

There's nothing more satisfying than being stupid with a friend.

She stood behind her mother's chair and brushed her hair gently for about five minutes, drawing the brush smoothly from forehead to nape, over and over, in the way her mother liked. It was the only sustained physical contact she seemed to enjoy. Her usual mode of a kiss good-bye, for instance, was the kiss-and-push-you-on-your-way. She wasn't a snuggler. No surprise, really, that this acceptable affection came via a prickly implement.

It makes me feel tired about how guarded we are the whole time. Without even trying we're ready to make a joke of everything, serving up the day with big dollops of irony and derision and cynicism. As if. Sucked in. Kidding.

It is my life and my body and I can’t stand the thought of going out into the world and being terrified by it all, all of the time because I am Danny. I am. And I don’t want to be. I don’t want to feel afraid. All I kept thinking about was Jessica Harmon thrown into that canal and all those other women on the tv, in newspapers found naked covered in mud, covered in blood - blue - twisted -found in the woods, found in ditches, never found. Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about them. Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about how I’m turning into one of them. I’m older now and soon my body will be like theirs. I didn’t want to end up in a ditch.

She'd always been comforted by how many words there were in the English language -- more than a million. With so many words surely anything could be said, everything could be understood. But what did the volume of words matter in any language when she couldn't even manage to ask the simplest questions? Will you tell me your story? Will you let me in to my own family? Isn't it my story, too?

You cracked up. You were looking at me and laughing. And I said, What? And you said, I love you. And we were both completely shocked. Because it was a little premature, surely. And you said it again, as though you were checking the flavor, and it tasted perfectly right. You said it again, softly, I love you; you were looking right into my heart. You said it again, almost shouting. And you were laughing and it was as though you were so happy you couldn't believe that someone had given you this good thing. And it was partly that, and it was partly because you were thinking you'd had a premature decision, whereas guys your age were more generally associated with premature ejaculation. As well as inability to speak girl and commitment problems to anything other than games with buttons. And the best part was when you said, You love me, too. And all I had to do was nod. Because it was true.

We’ll get out of the water soon,” he said. “As soon as the search parties spread out.” Search parties. As if they were going to be rescued instead of executed. “San Giorgio,” Cass whispered. “Sie--” She couldn’t even say Siena’s name. “I left some supplies there. In the woods behind the church.” “So brave,” Luca murmured. “So smart. I can’t believe you came for me.” “I couldn’t let you die,” Cass said.

Cass returned her attention to the pendant. As she struggled to work the tiny clasp behind her neck, she thought about the day Luca had given it to her. She’d been in the garden, reading, when he had come around the front of the house, a pale lily cradled in his hands. “Grazie,” she’d said when he rested the lily next to her on the bench. Her eyes had flipped back to her book. She didn’t mean to ignore him, but she was at a good part in her story. “Cass.” He’d angled his head toward the back of the garden, where roses bloomed in the wooden trellis. Stuck among them was another pale pink lily. Cass had arched an eyebrow, but then given in and closed her book. She and Luca had played this game when she was younger, both at his family palazzo and at Agnese’s. Luca used to hide little presents for her and mark the hiding spots with lilies. A smile playing across her lips, Cass got up to look at the second pink lily that he had poked into the trellis. Behind the delicate petals, a gold box was tied to the wood. Inside it, this necklace. Cass remembered the soft touch of Luca’s hands and the tickle of his breath on her skin as he bent low to work the tiny clasp.

He was going to kiss her. She was going to let him. Falco’s face blurred in the darkness as he closed the distance between them. And then…it wasn’t Falco she was about to kiss. It was Luca. She lunged backward in her seat, causing the gondola to lurch to one side. Falco’s eyes snapped open. “What happened?” Cass had no idea what to say. “I--I thought I saw something,” she stammered out. Falco glanced around, as if reaffirming that it would be impossible to see anything in the blackness under the bridge. “A vampire?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. Cass looked away. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.” “Oh. I think I understand.” Falco turned slowly away from Cass. He dragged his fingers across the shiny black wood as he moved toward the back of the boat. “Forgive me, Signorina. I didn’t mean to overstep my station.” “No. I--it’s not that,” Cass said. Her heart was trembling in her chest. Falco didn’t answer. He vaulted over the side of the boat and headed for the steps leading up to the bridge. Cass followed him, struggling to lift her skirts over the gondola’s edge. She fumbled her way up the uneven steps, feeling the dampness of the stones seeping through the bottom of her suede shoes. Falco stood in the middle of the bridge, his forearms resting on the railing. He stared down at the water so intently that Cass thought maybe it was his turn to see murderers and poisonous serpents beneath the surface. But no, Falco didn’t deal in superstition. Cass cleared her throat. Her chest felt as though there was a giant fist around it, squeezing. “Lately I always think I’m doing the wrong thing.” Falco nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the water. His jaw was tight. “You should stop thinking so much. Do what feels right.

Cass’s stomach flipped over as Falco reached into the stinking heap of garbage. He closed his hands around a tangled chunk of blackened metal. “What is that?” she asked. “Blacksmith’s error, most likely,” he said, reaching up and slamming the metal into the shutters. The wood splintered. Cass jumped back and covered her face with her hands as a cloud of dirt sprayed outward. “Are you insane?” “Only occasionally.” Falco brushed the dust from Cass’s cloak. He reached his arm through the jagged hole and winced as he felt around for the latch. The shutters opened with a groan, unveiling an inky rectangle of open space that reminded Cass of a coffin. Falco hoisted his body up through the opening and into darkness. “We can’t just break into the place,” she whispered loudly. “And yet, it appears that we can,” Falco said, perching like a cat on the narrow windowsill. “Were you hoping a servant might admit us through the front door?

The servant escorted Cass up the stairs into a vast portego lined with dark wood and accented with red and yellow paint. Cass fought the urge to wince. The whole room, even the ceiling, was adorned with elaborate sculptures of angels and winged horses. There must have been forty little flying creatures in there, each painted more garishly than the next. The walls were deep mahogany, with white marble moldings carved in swirling patterns. A giant square mirror hung at the center of each wall, reflecting the swirls and wings from across the room, magnifying the entire effect. It was hideous.

Signorina. It appears we have a mutual friend,” he said. “You should join us.” “This isn’t really the place for a lady,” Falco said. His voice was light, but contained a bit of an edge. “Something tells me you can protect her, Falco.” Paolo held open the door of the taverna. “I insist. What harm can one drink do?” Falco arched an eyebrow at his roommate. “Fine. One drink. Then Signorina Cassandra and I have some plans of our own.” “I can only imagine.” The tall boy’s eyes glittered like black glass. “I take it I shouldn’t expect you home tonight then.” Heat surged through Cass’s cheeks. She prayed that no one could see her blushing in the dim light. She followed Falco and Paolo back into the dim taverna, and over to a table where two other boys sat swilling some sort of alcohol out of tarnished pewter mugs. Paolo pulled a chair over and situated it next to Falco, who glanced over at her with an apologetic expression as she settled awkwardly into her seat. “So this is what’s been taking up so much of your time.” Paolo held up his lantern so he could see Cass better. “A bit skinny, but otherwise not bad. How do you afford her?” The other boys laughed. Cass stared down at the tabletop, her cheeks burning again. She concentrated on the seams in the knotty wood. Falco folded his hand around hers, lacing their fingers together. “This is Signorina Cassandra. Cass, you’ve met Paolo. And this is Nicolas and Etienne.” He gestured to the other men, and then turned back to his roommate. “Cass is a friend of mine, so it might be best to keep your attempts at humor to yourself.” “A friend, huh?” Paolo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s no accounting for her taste. How did you two meet?” Cass half listened as Falco spun a tale about doing her portrait as a present for her aunt. All she could focus on was the feel of his hand on hers. His fingertips, pressing tiny indents in her flesh. Ass heard a roaring in her head, felt a rushing, as if all of her body’s blood was making its way into that hand.

So this is what’s been taking up so much of your time.” Paolo held up his lantern so he could see Cass better. “A bit skinny, but otherwise not bad. How do you afford her?” The other boys laughed. Cass stared down at the tabletop, her cheeks burning again. She concentrated on the seams in the knotty wood. Falco folded his hand around hers, lacing their fingers together. “This is Signorina Cassandra. Cass, you’ve met Paolo. And this is Nicolas and Etienne.” He gestured to the other men, and then turned back to his roommate. “Cass is a friend of mine, so it might be best to keep your attempts at humor to yourself.” “A friend, huh?” Paolo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s no accounting for her taste.

Nimbly, Cass’s fingers worked through the knots while Luca watched with a mixture of surprise and admiration. “I had no idea your talents were so…varied,” he said. Cass smiled. It felt like the first smile in days. “Wait until you see me row.” And row she did. Wood ground against metal as she pulled the oars, leaning into each stroke, her muscles burning in protest as the boat moved slowly and steadily through the lagoon. She scanned the water as she rowed, looking for other craft, for boats that held soldiers, for anything out of the ordinary. But the night was a curtain of blackness, with nothing but a hazy moon to guide her. If they suddenly came upon another boat, there very well might be a crash. Luca took in each of her movements, the expression on his face suddenly making Cass feel shy. “What?” she asked. She looked down at the water, her eyes tracing the path of the wooden oar as it cut through the lagoon, before letting her gaze return to her fiancé. He was still watching her. “You’re staring.” “I was thinking that each time I feel I know you, you surprise me again.” His voice was low but full of warmth, like if he were feeling a bit stronger, he might lean over and kiss her.

If you survived then you were all right; no - lucky. What problems? You're alive! She wanted more than survival. She wanted beauty; she wanted love; she wanted abundance.

What would Jane do?

How disconcerting it was to have an idle fantasy turn into real life attraction.

What would the limitations on her new-found charm be? Was there an expiry date? She couldn't even revisit how the hell was this happening? It was too much to get her head around. It did not bear scrutiny.

Who had decided that some should have so little and others so much?

Vân Uoc decided that she too would get to know the book inside out. And something miraculous happened when they were about a quarter of the way through reading it. After weeks of ploughing and hesitating, something clicked; she stopped stumbling over the unknown words and long sentences. Words magically started to reveal meaning, most of the time anyway, through context. And the sentences themselves stopped being obstacles and started telling a story. Her eyes were racing ahead; she was comprehending the shape and rhythm of the language.

Is it because the wild-wood passion still lingers in our hearts, because still in our minds the voice of Syrinx lingers in melancholy music, the music of regret and longing, that for most of us there is so potent a spell in running waters?” Fiona Macleod.

How many times do your feet have to press down on a path before they make an imprint, before pieces of soul start sticking?

... consider the meaning of these images. Every time you're working with them, ask yourself: what do they mean? And, even more important, what do they mean to me? The more specific and personal something is, the more its universality emerges.

They go out and visit the kinds of places they are learning about such as the county court system, the grocery store oe the Department of Water and Power. They come back to the classroom and discuss what’s going on in the world, and they get wood and tools and construct a scaled-down version of what they have seen. Usually the structure will take up the entire room. If it’s a grocery store, then one person will be the manager, another the cashier, or the supplier of produce to the store. They will find out through creative discussion and play what possible problems they can run into operating a grocery store and will work together to solve those problems.

Out to one side of the group, Alice was not paying attention to any of the rest of them. She was forging her own path, present in body but mentally alone in a deep, dark wood.

I’m so happy with my beautiful wooden box. It smells like the Habous (the best bits, not the stinky goat hides and the places where stray dogs have peed) – which is to say of soft spices and fragrant oils. Maman says it’s made of a kind of wood called sandalwood and it will always have that smell.

She not only saw the wood for the trees, she saw the entire forest and it was desolate and scrappy.

What?" Devon asked, somehow going paler. "This dead chick was in the woods? I didn't see that at all! Who is she?” It could be an act, Jake mused, rubbing his chin. He eyed Devon and said, "So you just happened to take your date, a woman you intended to assault and hell,

Gina wonder why on Earth she agreed to go on a hike in the woods for a first date with a guy she barely knew.

There's this sky I like.