Jonathan Auxier Quotes

A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens 'em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.

Now, there is a wonderful thing in this world called "foresight". It is a gift treasured above all others because it allows one to know what the future holds. Most people with foresight end up wielding immense power in life, often becoming great rulers or librarians.

That’s how it works, doesn’t it? We are saved by saving others.

A boy your age should know better than to consider anything impossible.” (p 62)

...I have called you forth not because of what you may become, but because of what you already are.

Nobody's too old for stories--not even God himself.

To demand promises is to invite disappointment" -Hester

In my experience heroes are no more good than you or I. And though occasionally noble, they are just as often cunning, resourceful, and a little brash.

Runnin's not a bad thing, sir, so long as you're runnin' towards somethin' good.

That’s what it is to care for a person,” Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.

And even though they had eaten nothing, the girl still ended her day with a belly full of story—which sticks to the ribs even better than mutton.

I've always admired a person who can admit to not knowing something. Most people smile and nod and pretend they know everything for fear of being caught out. But those people only ensure their ignorance.

You can’t have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows.

The real world. The very notion is absurd. Worlds and everything in them are made real by the stories that inhabit them.

We'll never know. And maybe that's the best. It's a bad tale that has all the answers." -Molly

It was a choice between comfortable misery and terrifying uncertainty… professor Cake had given him a choice – a gift that no one had ever offered him before” 68

A well-spun tale can transport listeners away from their humdrum lives and return them with an enlarged sense of the world.

There is old proverb from my childhood. "Say not in grief 'He is no more,' but live in the thankfulness that he was.

There is something wonderful that happens between true friends.When they find themselves no longer wasting time with meaningless chatter.Instead, they become content just to share each other's company. It is the opinion of some that this sort of friendship is the only kind worth having. While jokes and anecdotes are nice, they do not compare with the beauty of shared solitude.

Suffice it to say, if one hopes to live in a world of wonders, he had better locate himself in a place where wondrous stories abound.

The Victorian era was perhaps the last point in Western history when magic and science were allowed to coexist.

Most people with foresight end up wielding immense power in life, often becoming great rulers or librarians.

The start of any journey-whether pilgrimage or promenade-is one of life's true joys.

Hester shook her head. 'Don't confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there's no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life. Never drew a free breath, yet he shaped the world with just three small words: there once was. And where are his great masters now, hmm? Rotting in tombs, if they're lucky. But Aesop - he still lives to this day, dancin' on the tip of every tongue what's ever told a tale.' She winked at Molly. 'Think on that, next time you're scrubbing floors.

Should you ever be so lucky as to encounter an author in your life, you should shower her or him with gifts and praise. Sir

it is a well-known fact that brawling begets friendship.

Don't confuse what you do with who you are...

Gifts are meant to be left behind, not waved under a person's nose like a boast. It's a very private thing to open a present, and a person deserves to do it in his own way.

Scheherazade’s Law: It is impossible to kill someone who is in the middle of telling you a really wonderful story.

There are times when being a leader is less about having the right answer than about having an answer.

Stories come in all different kinds." Hester scooted closer, clearly enjoying the subject at hand. "There's tales, which are light and fluffy. Good for a smile on a sad day. Then you got yarns, which are showy-yarns reveal more about the teller than the story. After that there's myths, which are stories made up by whole groups of people. And last of all, there's legends." She raised a mysterious eyebrow. "Legends are different from the rest on account no one knows where they start. Folks don't tell legends; they repeat them. Over and over again through history.

I think I figured it out." She sniffed, looking up at the stars. "Hester asked me what the difference between a story and a lie was. At the time, I told her that a story helps folks. 'Helps 'em do what?' she asked. Well, I think I know the answer. A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens 'em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.

There's what's smart and what's right." - Molly in the Night Gardener

To stand in the shadow of this tree was to feel a chill run through your whole body.

Boredom is anathema to the adventurous spirit, and when mixed with hunger, the effect could be forgot toxic.

I suppose I am remembering Passover as a way to remind myself that the struggle for freedom is as old as time. That there are always others who yet need to be delivered.

Serious readers know the singular pleasure of handling a well-made book - the heft and texture of the case, the rasp of the spine as you lift the cover, the sweet, dusty aroma of yellowed pages as they pass between your fingers. A book is more than a vessel for ideas; It is a living thing in need of love, warmth, and protection.

It is lamentably common among chivalrous sorts that they are more intent on defending a woman's honor than listening to the actual wishes of said woman.

It’s no joke,” he insisted. “Something’s wrong with this whole place. You seen how pale they all are—it ain’t natural.” “That’s just how folks look in England.

Professor Cake, like all true readers, was an incurable book filch.

There are some times when a person is in such dire straits that they are able to achieve the impossible - less by their own strength than by a strength that moves through them.

The best way to inspire a love of reading is to read something you love . . . even if it is difficult.

In a moment of terrible heartbreak, he (The Sweep) had taught her to see wonder.

Peter had spent his whole life in a town where fights were either drunken and friendly, or silent and petty. True war was foreign to him. He thought of how scared and confused he had been when the battle broke out in the Nest; he was in a different world now.

he started with the rascal's questions. Where was he? dangling fifty feat above ground choking to death Were there friends near by? He could hear his sister strugling by the stairs, but she was too far to help Were there weapons nearby? His fishhook was lying useless on the ground below, leaving him only his hands. But his were no ordinary hands.

Not everything old and ugly is wicked.

There is a lesson here. Just because a book makes you feel bad does not mean it is bad.

As you know, children (unlike grown-ups) are far too clever to be tricked by impostors - a fact that goes a long way toward explaining their distrust of wicked stepmothers and substitute teachers.

In my experience, heroes are no more good than you or I. And though occasionally noble, they are just as often cunning, resourceful, and a little brash. Who better fits that description than the great Peter Nimble?

Peter stood back up. 'Well, that was a perfectly useless conversation,' he said with a sigh. Now, there is a wonderful thing in this world called 'foresight.' It is a gift treasured above all others because it allows one to know what the future holds. most people with foresight end up wielding immense power in life, often becoming great rulers or librarians.

Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use.

What is your name?” “Alistair,

To differing opinions: may they ever stay apart.

Stories don’t have to do anything; they just have to be.

Steam rose from the soil like a phantom, carrying with it a whisper of autumn smoke that had been lying dormant in the frosty underground.

We save ourselves by saving others.

The bigger the scar the better the story.

Courage, by J.M. Barrie..., is about a walking stick, a storyteller, and what it means to fight for peace...what young people are to do in a world in which adults have failed...them.

Stories are not mere diversions to occupy us on rainy days," he said. "They are a type of magic spell - perhaps the most powerful in existence - and their effect is to summon possibilities.

He reached under the bench to retrieve his crutch. His father had carved the crutch from the branch of a fallen wych elm on the farm back home. It was strong and thick and had just enough spring to be comfortable when he walked. Da named it 'Courage,' saying that all good tools deserved a good title. Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use.

Hollow, melting the final bits of ice from the bare trees. Steam rose from the soil like a phantom, carrying with it a whisper of autumn smoke that had been lying dormant in the frosty underground.

We four books - Who, What, Where and When - Hold all the world's magic bound within. And when assembled throughout the ages, Two words, when spoken, unlock our pages. Impossible things of all shape and kind Flow from the will of a curious mind.

Being a leader is often difficult. It requires that you continually put the needs of others before your own desires.

Most trees invite you to climb up into their canopy. This one did not. Most trees make you want to carve your initials into the trunk. This one did not.

I’m sorry. I don’t know any more.” Niri shook her head, staring up at them. “But I do know that if you fail, everything is lost.” Rollan scratched his head. “No pressure.

prisoners

Literal minds don't deal well with legends.

The late-autumn sky was a cauldron of swirling gray. There was a smell of ash and mischief in the air. Dead leaves danced across the streets like brittle phantoms.

Gifts are meant to be left behind, not waved under a person’s nose like a boast. It’s a very private thing to open a present, and a person deserves to do it in his own way.

A soot golem may be a very nice creature,” he said slowly. “But I think I would rather be just Charlie.

Taro

What's a storyteller but someone who asks folks to believe in impossible things?

If we all could just ignore the way other people looked, then we could see who they really were.

The start of any journey - whether pilgrimage or promenade - is one of life's true joys. Every moment is charged with an excitement about things to come. Obstacles and complications are seen not as discouragement, but as seasoning that only improves the flavor of one's adventure.

But that’s how the tree works, ain’t it? It gives you what you wish for but not in a way that makes things better. I suppose that’s the difference between what you want and what you need.” Molly

There are moments in life - rare for most people - when you suddenly realize that the tapestry of the world is grander and more intricately woven than you had ever imagined. This was such a moment for Sophie Quire as she sat at the open book, staring at the words before her: The Last Storyguard

But I guess it found you" "About that," Peter said trying to ignore the slight. "Why send a riddle? You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you'd written something less complicated." "It wasn't that complicated," she muttered. "Yeah!" Scrape added. "And how was she suppose to know it'd end up in the hands of some blind dummy and his ugly pet?" sir tode, who up to this point had been listening quietly, had evidently had enough. "I've had enough," he said, leaping to his hooves. "I'm a fierce knight, known to the world over slaying dragons. Who among you can boast such a feat? And this 'blind dummy' just happens to be the legendary Peter Nimble... the greatest theif who ever lived.

I’ve always admired a person who can admit to not knowing something. Most people smile and nod and pretend they know everything for fear of being caught out. But those people only ensure their ignorance

You may have observed in your own lives that there is a great power in storytelling. A well-spun tale can transport listeners away from their humdrum lives and return them with an enlarged sense of the world.

The only thing worse than a perilous adventure is a boring one, and the limits of the duo's patience were tried more than once as they slalomed between squalls, broke through blizzards, and drifted across doldrums.

Ma and Da believed that if you suspected a monster was hiding under your bed, you should get down on your hands and knees and find out for certain. And if you were lucky enough to discover one down there—fangs dripping, eyes glowing red—you should be quick to offer him a blanket and a bowl of warm milk so he wouldn’t catch a chill.

When a population loses its stories, it loses its capacity for wonder - what remains is a life of drudgery and toil. Every day, it seems, I come upon another bookcase that looks into a world devoid of wonder. I fear Bustleburgh is next.

She had, in fact, never met an author in person before. As you can imaginge, it was a singularly thrilling experience. Should you ever be so lucky as to encounter an author in your life, you should shower her or him with gifts and praise.

I had to stay alive—no matter how bad things got. Because if I died, then there would be no one to keep an eye out for Nan Sparrow.” He looked up at the sky. It was just clear enough to make out the faint glimmer of moonlight. “That’s how it works, doesn’t it? We are saved by saving others.

I have known a number of Storyguard in my years, and they are all of them unique but for one trait: they understand that stories are more than the sum of their words. Indeed, many of them love stories beyond their own lives. Which probably explains why most Storyguard are killed in the line of duty.

Say not in grief ‘He is no more,’ but live in the thankfulness that he was.

Courage is feeling fear and facing it head-on.

It’s no job for a blind person. Do

When a population loses its stories, it loses its capacity for wonder - what remains is a life of drudgery and toil

That’s what it is to care for a person...If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.

Oh, where did you go, dear Gal-i-le-o? Your oats are a-ready, an’ we miss you so!” It

What's a storyteller but someone who asks folks to believe in impossible things? And for one perfect moment, I saw something impossible. And that's enough for me.

While adults can be intimidated and deceived, a child’s constitution is made from far stronger stuff.

swords that still ring with the screams of their victims,

That's what it is to care for a person," Toby said. There was not a hint of mocking in his voice. "If you're not afraid you're not doing it right.

There’s no better place for writing than a rooftop—the fresh air makes your words come out like songs.

Just Charlie is plenty good enough for me.

That’s how it works, doesn’t it? We are saved by saving others.

But this revulsion soon gave way to a certain kind of fascination due to one immutable truth known the world over as Scheherazade’s Law: It is impossible to kill someone

Who says I'm never afraid? Of course I'm afraid. You can't have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows." He sounded much more awake now. "Some things are frightening, and only a fool wouldn't be afraid of them." He scratched the back of his head. The girl wondered if he was thinking about the charity men, too. "Courage is feeling fear and facing it head-on.

I’ve always admired a person who can admit to not knowing something. Most people smile and nod and pretend they know everything for fear of being caught out. But those people only ensure their ignorance.

She had, in fact, never met an author in person before. As you can imagine, it was a singularly thrilling experience. Should you ever be so lucky as to encounter an author in your life, you should shower her or him with gifts and praise.

the reactions were generally the same. As a rule, most people seem to appreciate being rescued by dashing strangers. Most people, perhaps, but not Sophie Quire. “Are you insane?” she shouted, her voice hoarse from screaming at him. “You nearly killed those men!” Peter almost fell over as she wrenched a book out from under his boot. He listened as she riffled through the pages, as though inspecting the book for damage. “And what were you doing up on that lamppost, anyway?” she demanded. “Were you following me?” Peter stepped back, caught off guard. “I . . . um . . .” Obviously he had been following her. People didn’t just spend their mornings climbing lampposts for the fun of it. But to hear her describe the activity, you would think it was the worst thing in the world. “In case you forgot,” he said finally, “I just rescued you.” “Rescued me?” The girl got right in his face. She was radiating indignation like a furnace. “I was going to have to pay a fine . . . Now I’m party to attempted murder. Who knows what they will do to me, or my father? One word from the Inquisitor and we’ll be on the street or worse—and it will all be thanks to you!” Peter opened his mouth but closed it again. He could feel his whole face flushing with anger, or perhaps embarrassment—he wasn’t sure which. All he knew was this was not what he had planned. “I . . . I was only trying to help,” he said, inching back. “Next time, resist the urge.” The girl yanked her cloak over her shoulders with a dramatic flap. “And if you’re going to throw something into the river,” she added, “why not start with that ridiculous hat? You look like an ostrich in mourning.” With a dramatic heel, she turned away and ran toward the road.

My girl, we are on the cusp of a modern age-and with it comes modern medicine." He dug a fat hand through his bag and removed a small bottle. "Take this laudanum, for example. Wonderful stuff! I have a few drops in my tea each morning to calm the nerves.

She had read enough stories in her life to be familiar with the trope in which heroes make a great show of being reluctant when told they must embark on a dangerous quest. They often refuse the call to adventure, only to change their minds at the very last moment. This had always bothered Sophie, who thought that such dithering was both unrealistic and unheroic. But now that she was being told she must embark on a dangerous quest, she suddenly understood just how difficult it was to take that first step.

I’m afraid,” Nan said. “Afraid he . . . afraid I . . .” She shook her head. “What if I can’t protect him?” “That’s what it is to care for a person,” Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.

Perhaps you've heard the riddle of the dreaming king? It goes something like this: Two brothers happen upon a king asleep beneath a tree in the forest. The brothers suspect that the king is dreaming about the forest, and that they themselves are merely characters in his dream. The first brother insists that they wake the king to discover if this is true. The second brother insists that they let the king keep sleeping, for fear that when the dream ends, they will die. And thus we have our dilemma: should one concede a mad notion for fear that it might be true?

So Nan told Charlie about the whole thing. How the baby Jesus was born in a basket and how a wicked king tried to kidnap him but then a big bearded angel named Father Christmas fought the king. “And then he tossed the baby Jesus down the chimney of a girl named Mary, and that was the first Christmas present.

Perhaps you have heard the famous bit of wisdom about how the making of an omelet requires the breaking of eggs? This philosophy, while technically true, does not account for the fact that omelets are universally disappointing to all who eat them - equal parts water and rubber and slime. Who among us would not prefer a good cobbler or spiced pudding? Sophie often thought that Bustleburgh was not unlike the omelet maker who, having grown obsessed with his task, had decided that all eggs everywhere must be broken at any cost. While she acknowledged the convenience of living in a modern city, she wasn't sure it was worth the destruction of so many wondrous things . . . especially if those things included books.

The Book of Who seemed to be some sort of enormous compendium of people throughout history, complete with meticulous illustrations and cross-referenced footnotes. The entries, however, were not what one might expect from a traditional encyclopedia. They described mice in shining armor, fishermen as tall as mountains, and white-bearded children who could talk to the rain.

No, my foolish scribbler. I have made this world better. Safer. More dependable. There are no more fairy feasts in Bustleburgh, but neither are there starving widows. The lame man no longer experiences miraculous healing, but he now has a physician to soothe his pain. Children have no time for perilous adventures, because they are employed in productive work. We have no glass orchards or wishing wells, but we do have courthouses and factories and hospitals and schools.

For as long as Sophie could remember, every autumn brought a new vote about what type of "nonsense" to burn next. First it was fairy fruit. Then it was any object forged by dwarfs. Then it was any object that talked. Then it was alternative medicines and certain baked goods. Then it was (puzzlingly) windup toys. Then it was clothes that were too bright or flamboyant. Then it was any good imported from a foreign land. Then it was anything deemed too old - tapestries and paintings and spindles. Now, at last, it was storybooks.

Worlds and everything in them are made real by the stories that inhabit them. . . . Stories are not mere diversions to occupy us on rainy days," he said. "They are a type of magic spell--perhaps the most powerful in existence--and their effect is to summon possibilities." As he walked, he gestured at the rows of different shelves, each one looking into a different place. "Every time the spell is cast, the impossible becomes a little more possible." Sophie was trying her best to follow his meaning. "So every time someone reads a story," she said slowly, "they're actually casting some sort of . . . magic spell?" "Precisely. Suffice it to say, if one hopes to live in a world of wonders, he had better locate himself in a place where wondrous stories abound. And if those stories were to suddenly disappear well, that would be bad for everyone involved. . . . "When a population loses its stories, it loses its capacity for wonder--what remains is a life of drudgery and toil. . . . "I have known a number of Storyguard in my years, and they are all of them unique but for one trait: they understand that stories are more than the sum of their words. Indeed, many of them love stories beyond their own lives. Which probably explains why most Storyguard are killed in the line of duty.

He shook the nerves from his hand and touched the root again. Again it moved. The tiny fibers at the end came alive, reaching for him, twining around his fingertip. He looked around the hole, and he could now see tiny roots everywhere, pushing gently through the soil. The tree was growing right before his eyes. “You’re alive,” he whispered. Just then, he felt a sharp pain. The root had tightened, choking the tip of his finger. Kip jerked his hand back, trying to pull himself free—but the root would not let go. He pulled harder. “Ow!” he cried out as his hand finally came away. A gust of wind howled overhead. Kip looked up and saw leaves and loose dirt blowing into the hole, piling up around his feet. He tried to pull himself out of the hole, but a strong gust knocked him backward. Dirt and leaves poured down over his body, burying him. “Help!” Kip shouted, but he knew no one could hear him. Molly and the family were inside the house. Even Galileo was gone. More and more tiny roots came out of the soil, grasping at his legs, his arms, his neck. Kip screamed again, straining against the roots. His voice came back to him, muffled and small. He could barely move beneath the weight of dirt and leaves—a rustling, choking darkness. Kip twisted his body and felt something hard against his face—

For countless centuries, magic gripped the ordinary world in a vise of terror. Fairies used to steal children away and leave sickly changelings in their stead. House cats would rob their masters. a forest was just as likely to eat you as shelter you. When you offended a beggar crone, she did not sue you in a court of law - instead, she cursed you and your children and your children's children. People ate fairy fruit and went mad with hunger. Djinni granted wishes designed to trap you in your own desires. When there was an earthquake or blizzard or hurricane, you could be be sure it was due to some king or queen feeling sad - the amount of destruction caused by lovesick royalty is incalculable!

And so it went in Bustleburgh. The city that had set out to destroy stories had been transformed into a haven for books of all kinds. And as the population read more stories, the city itself began to change. At first the changes were small: a few sprites hovering over the dusky river, or a falling star on the horizon. But then more changes came. The Wassail lost its murky darkness and shone clear once more. The eyes of the gargoyles shifted as one passed beneath them. Birds sang in three-part chorus. Mirrors reflected strange visions. Old, neglected wells started granting wishes. More than a few house pets took to uttering prophecies. As the city changed, so did the way people saw it: Old maids became crones, and naughty children became imps; the strongest men were hailed as giants and the fairest ladies called enchantresses. The once-level roads shifted and settled into twisting alleyways full of long shadows and narrow corridors - every one of them eventually leading to a small bookshop in the heart of the town.

Who says I’m never afraid? Of course I’m afraid. You can’t have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows.

But if you’re always looking back, you might not see what’s in front of you.

The man who can read is a king among paupers," he used to tell her. " Better than a king, I'll warrant. For there's plenty o' royal folk who don't know their A— from their E—!" The Sweep would always chuckle at this last part, and Nan had never known why.

Promise you won't laugh," Charlie said. "I can't promise that," Nan said. "But if I do, I'll try my best to make it a nice laugh.

Nan closed the window. " You are the worst liar I've ever met." Charlie nodded, a little proud. "Yes, I am.

The letter A doesn’t make a real sound. You just hear the sound in your head when you look at it. The words happen inside of you." "Now I understand," Charlie said, nodding. "Words are *feelings*.

Molly knew no good could come from a person hating what they could not change. p. 23

There is no art so important as that of thread and needle…it’s taking what’s rended and making it whole.

much prefer the witching hours, and with

Who says I'm never afraid? Of course I'm afraid. You can't have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows. ... Some things are frightening, and only a fool wouldn't be afraid of them. ... Courage is feeling fear and facing it head-on. -page 296

The man who can read is a king among paupers,” he used to tell her. “Better than a king, I’ll warrant. For there’s plenty o’ royal folk who don’t know their A— from their E—!

Home is a safe place to put your things so burglars can’t touch them.

To live in poverty is one thing, but to live in ignorance . . . It breaks my heart. They deserve more.

We save ourselves by saving others.” “I think that is why he made me,” Charlie said. “He wanted me to tell you. He wanted you to know.

I love a good shiver," he said. "The secret to being cozy is always to let one tiny part of yourself feel cold. If every part of you is toasty warm, it's too much and you'll feel stifled.

What is the difference between a story and a lie? A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens ’em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.

Running’s not a bad thing, so long as you’re running toward something good.

wicked stepmothers and substitute teachers.

What if Kovo doesn’t want to help?” Abeke said. Shane met her eyes. “Then we’re all as good as dead.

Kovo lumbered past her, right to Conor, and gave the boy a “tap” on the side of the head with the flat end of his mallet. The boy fell back to the ground—unconscious but otherwise unharmed. The Great Ape then turned toward Meilin and made a smug gesture with his hands: “Problem solved.

Most adults were impatient with children—snapping at them to hurry.

Nan’s struggle perhaps feels like a relic from the barbaric past, yet today over 160 million children worldwide are forced into child labor. The battle is far from won.

You can’t have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows.” He sounded much more awake now. “Some things are frightening, and only a fool wouldn’t be afraid of them.” He scratched the back of his head. The girl wondered if he was thinking about the charity men, too. “Courage is feeling fear and facing it head-on.

Poverty, child labor, and anti-Semitism continue to this day, no matter how much we would prefer to ignore them. It is only in looking back that we have any hope of moving forward.

By some estimates, the average life span of a climber was just five years. As Nan herself discovers, this was not for want of technology: Designs for a mechanical brush had been publicly available for nearly a century. It was, in fact, homeowners who resisted the mechanical brush most fiercely—claiming that the brushes did not do as thorough a job as young climbers.

Reformers and friendly societies spent more than a century trying to ban climbing until finally a boy named George Brewster suffered a horrific death on the job. The ensuing scandal changed the tide of public opinion and led to the passing of the Chimney Sweepers Act 1875—at long last marking the end of climbing across England.

So you all get to pick secret names?” he said. “Can I request that people start calling me Handsome?” “Most names are based on our spirit animals,” said another Redcloak woman with black, hungry eyes that reminded him of a bat. “So maybe we should call you Featherbrain?

Who says I’m never afraid? Of course I’m afraid. You can’t have courage without fear, any more than you can have a ray of light without shadows.” He sounded much more awake now. “Some things are frightening, and only a fool wouldn’t be afraid of them.” He scratched the back of his head. The girl wondered if he was thinking about the charity men, too. “Courage is feeling fear and facing it head-on.

creaking voice whispered beneath his feet. “She’s right here, birdyboy.” The voice was so close to Rollan that he immediately shouted out in surprise and leaped clear off his seat, fumbling for his dagger. The bowl of stew that he’d been holding flew up into the air and landed with a loud slosh! right on his head. Rollan spun around, staring at the person who had spoken to him. It was an old woman with cracked, leathery skin, laughing with a huge toothless smile. She was lying on the ground at his feet, arms at her side. Her white hair was tangled and greasy, hanging limp from her thin face. And her eyes … were gone. Where two eyes should have been there were only soft dents in the flesh—as if someone had sculpted her from clay and forgotten that one feature. Rollan wiped fish stew from his face, still breathing heavily. For the third time in less than an hour, he was surrounded by laughing Redcloaks. He glanced down at Essix, who seemed similarly amused. “Very funny,” he muttered, flinging boiled fish guts from his cloak. “Sorry to have startled you, birdyboy,” the old woman said, then sniffed the air. “Or is it fishyboy? I can’t tell for sure.

The letter doesn't make a real sound. You just hear the sound in your head when you look at it. The words happen inside of you. 'Now I understand,' Charlie said, nodding. 'Words are feelings.

That's what it is to care for a person," Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. "If you're not afraid, you're not doing it right.

We are saved by saving someone else <3 ~Nan Mus

Nikt nie jest za duży na bajki.

Nie zawsze to, co właściwe, jest mądre.

- Wszystko w porządku - szeptała Molly, głaszcząc ją po włosach. - Wszystko będzie dobrze. - Żyję już wystarczająco długo, żeby wiedzieć, że to nieprawda.

Nie ma znaczenia, że boli, trzeba iść.

It’s like Toby said.” Nan blinked tears from her eyes. “We save ourselves by saving others.

Don’t confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there’s no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life.

Stories come in all different kinds.” Hester scooted closer, clearly enjoying the subject at hand. “There’s tales, which are light and fluffy. Good for a smile on a sad day. Then you got yarns, which are showy—yarns reveal more about the teller than the story. After that there’s myths, which are stories made up by whole groups of people. And last of all, there’s legends.” She raised a mysterious eyebrow. “Legends are different from the rest on account no one knows where they start. Folks don’t tell legends; they repeat them. Over and again through history. And the story I have for you”—she sat back on her stool—“why, that one’s a legend.

till we reached the snowy north, where we met a band of Eskimo merchants in a whale-drawn skiff! The Eskimos were so pleased to find we spoke English that they invited us aboard for a steaming bowl of kraken soup, which your da and me agreed was the loveliest thing we ever did taste. We even got the recipe so’s that we can make a pot when we’re all together once more.

Every time I hear that river, it brings me right back to the sea.

That's how it works, doesn't it? We are saved by saving others.

Nan Sparrow fell.

across the floorboards. Molly watched

Feathers and bone without and within, I am that and this and that once again. Borne aloft among the winds, I encircle new life within my limbs, I bear the seed that bears the seed— And by spring’s end, small mouths I’ll feed! What am I?

Charlie had the chance to become any sort of thing he wanted. Nan looked at her own skinny legs and stained fingers and thought about how she might change herself, if she could. But she didn’t want to change.

Chanticleer!

A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens ’em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.

To demand promises is to invite disappointment.

Feathers and bone without and within, I am that this and that once again. Borne aloft among the winds, I encircle new life within my limbs, I bear the seed that bears the seed - And by spring's end, small mouths I'll feed! What am I?

Her gaze moved to Charlie's frozen face, which seemed to be watching them. "Even now, you're a protector," she said to him. "They're lucky to have you.

prefer nights myself—the world takes on greater dimensions when obscured by shadow.

Much as it pains me. I best be moving on...it's time...to tell one more story. It's one I've been working on for a long time. Maybe my whole life. Call it the last story...this one is for me and me alone. That's the way it goes with last stories.

grief,

Zeitgeist