Rf Kuang Love Quotes

Fire and water looked so lovely together. It was a pity they destroyed each other by nature.

Take what you want. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you.

I don't love you. And I can kill anything.

How strange,’ said Ramy. ‘To love the stuff and the language, but to hate the country.’ ‘Not as odd as you’d think,’ said Victoire. ‘There are people, after all, and then there are things.

She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts.

He loves her. Of this he’s certain.

He loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes too quick, like it’s ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She’s everything he’s not: unbound, reckless, free. He’s never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts.

He went back to his first morning in Oxford: climbing a sunny hill with Ramy, picnic basket in hand. Elderflower cordial. Warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. The air smelled like a promise, all of Oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love.

She recognized the way he was looking at her. It was how she’d once looked at Altan. It was the way she’d seen Daji look at Riga—that look of wretched, desperate, and reproachful loyalty. It said, Do it. Take what you want, it said. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you.

And if falling in love was discovery, was letting yourself be discovered the equivalent to being loved?

He knew exactly what choice she'd made and what she intended. And that made everything- hating her, loving her, surviving her, so much harder.

Ah. I get it.” Baji gave her a curious look. “You’re in love.” “Don’t be disgusting.

Sir?” Kitay asked. The magistrate turned to look at him. “What?” With a grunt, Kitay raised the crate over his head and flung it to the ground. It landed on the dirt with a hard thud, not the tremendous crash Rin had rather been hoping for. The wooden lid of the crate popped off. Out rolled several very nice porcelain teapots, glazed with a lovely flower pattern. Despite their tumble, they looked unbroken. Then Kitay took to them with a slab of wood. When he was done smashing them, he pushed his wiry curls out of his face and whirled on the sweating magistrate, who cringed in his seat as if afraid Kitay might start smashing at him, too. “We are at war,” Kitay said. “And you are being evacuated because for gods know what reason, you’ve been deemed important to this country’s survival. So do your job. Reassure your people. Help us maintain order. Do not pack your fucking teapots.

I received both these scars from men I thought I loved,” Rin said. “One is dead now. One will be.

Do it. Take what you want, it said, I'll hate you for it. But I'll love you forever. I can't help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I'll let you.

When she turned, she only saw one silhouette against the dark. Nezha had come alone. Unarmed. He always looked different in the moonlight. His skin shone paler, his features looked softer, resembling less the harsh visage of his father and more the lovely fragility of his mother. He looked younger. He looked like the boy she'd known at school

Yet, rin supposed, lovers could still inflict that kind of violence on each other. Hadn't Riga loved Daji? Hadn't Jiang loved Tseveri? Hadn't nezha once loved her?

They are, both of them, bound by forces far behind their making: vicious paths that put them in this spot, across each other, never on the same side. Their visions of the future don’t include each other. There is no compromise or neutrality. Only her way. Or his. It doesn’t matter that he loves her. It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered.

He hated this place. He loved it. He resented how it treated him. He still wanted to be a part of it – because it felt so good to be a part of it, to speak to its professors as an intellectual equal, to be in on the great game.

We have to die to get their pity. We have to die for them to find us noble. Our deaths are thus great acts of rebellion, a wretched lament that highlights their inhumanity. Our deaths become their battle cry. I don't want to be their Imoinda, their Oroonoko. I don't want to be their tragic, lovely lacquer figure. I want to live.

She wondered if he was going to kiss her now. She didn't know much about being kissed, but if the old stories were anything to judge by, now seemed like a good time. The hero always took his maiden somewhere beautiful and declared his love under the stars. She would have liked Nezha to kiss her, too. She would have liked to share this final memory with him before she fled. But he only stared thoughtfully at her, his mind fixed on something she couldn't guess at.

It was a funny thing, how fear made him look so much younger, how it rounded his eyes and erased the cruel grimace of his sneer so that he looked, just for an instant, like the boy she'd first met at Sinegard.

He loves her. Of this he's certain. He loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes too quick, like it's ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she's dying. She's fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This he tells her. He doesn't tell her that his hand holds the blade.

For the first time since I submitted the manuscript, I feel a deep wash of shame. This isn’t my history, my heritage. This isn’t my community. I am an outsider, basking in their love under false pretenses. It should be Athena sitting here, smiling with these people, signing books and listening to the stories of her elders.

She was not alone. She was safe. There was at least a single other soul in this universe who vibrated at her same frequency.

Most of the accounts that participate so clearly do not care about the truth. They’re here for the entertainment. These people love to have a target, and they’ll tear apart anything you put in front of them.

By the time they’d finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other – not quite yet, because true love took time and memories, but as close to love as first impressions could take them.

And so perhaps it was entirely possible - common, even - for you to look into the eyes of someone you'd been falling in love with, someone you had spent every waking moment with, whose breathing sounded as familiar as your own - and fail to recognize them at all.

It's time," Kitay murmured. Rin stood up. They faced each other, hands clasped between them. "At dawn," she said. "At dawn," he agreed. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. This was their standard way of parting, the way they said everything they never spoke out loud. Fight well. Keep us safe. I love you.

Take what you want. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I'll let you.

You love your shamans like your own family, and a knife twists in your heart every time you watch one of them die. But you have to do it. You've got to make the choices no one else can. It's death or the Chuluu Korikh. Commanders cull.

This is what I love about writing - it offers us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, and the stories we tell about ourselves. It lets us acknowledge every aspect of our heritage and history.

Take what you want" , it said." I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you.

He loves her. Of this he is certain. he loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes out too quick, like it's ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she's dying. She's fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This he tells her. He doesn't tell her that his hand holds the blade.

I could kill you," said Altan, muttering the death threat like a love song, and when she-as-Chaghan struggled against him he pressed his body closer.

She’d loved him like a father once. He’d taught her everything he’d known. He’d led her to the Pantheon. Then he’d abandoned her, returned to her, betrayed her, and saved her. He’d let so many others die—he’d let her people die—but he had saved her. What the fuck was she supposed to do with a legacy like that?

She had not always known the shape of him. She had loved the version of him she'd constructed for herself. She had admired him. She had idolized him. She adored an idea of him, an archetype, a version of him that was invulnerable.

He can’t be real, she thought. A boy made of flesh and bone could not be so painfully lovely, so free of any blemish or flaw.

The gods were simply those beings that inhabited that space, forces of creation and destruction, love and hatred, nurturing and neglect, light and dark, cold and warm... they opposed one another and complemented one another; they were fundamental truths.

Robin pleaded. ‘I’m just trying to survive.’ ‘Survival’s not that difficult, Birdie.’ Ramy’s eyes were very hard. ‘But you’ve got to maintain some dignity while you’re at it.

She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts.

He went back to his first morning in Oxford: climbing a sunny hill with Ramy, picnic basket in hand. Elderflower cordial. Warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. The air that day smelled like a promise, all of Oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love. 'It's so odd,' Robin said. Back then they'd already passed the point of honesty; they spoke to one another unfiltered, unafraid of the consequences. 'It's like I've known you forever.' 'Me too,' Ramy said. 'And that makes no sense,' said Robin, drunk already, though there was no alcohol in the cordial. 'Because I've known you for less than a day, and yet...' 'I think,' said Ramy, 'its' because when I speak, you listen.' 'Because you are fascinating.' 'Because you're a good translator.' Ramy leaned back on his elbows. 'That's just what translation is, I think. That's all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your biases to glimpse what they're trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands.

This was love, a love she had never known; At last, she thought, this is the real thing -- this gradual unfolding of another soul, charting one's course into priviliged inner territory, making discoveries of which you felt you were the first. Alice loved her work for just this reason, so why wouldn't she fall in love with people, too?

We have to die to get their pity said Victoire we have to die for them to find us noble. Our deaths are thus great acts of rebellion. A wretched lament that highlights their inhumanity. Our deaths become their battle cry. But I don’t want to die, Robin. I don’t want to die...I don’t want to be their tragic, lovely lack of figure. I want to live…and thrive and survive them.

Then he blinked, because he’d just registered what this most mundane and extraordinary moment meant – that in the space of several weeks, they had become what he’d never found in Hampstead, what he thought he’d never have again after Canton: a circle of people he loved so fiercely his chest hurt when he thought about them. A family.

The university ripped us from our homes and made us believe our futures could only consist of serving the Crown,' said Robin. 'The university tells us we are special, chosen, selected, when really we are severed from our motherlands and raised within spitting distance of a class we can never truly become a part of. The university turned us against our own and made us believe our only options were complicity or the streets. That was no favour, Sterling. It was cruelty. Don't ask me to love my master.

We have an enemy whom we love.

The snow was lovely to observe for all of two serene minutes. Then it became nothing but a pain in the ass.

what he thought he’d never have again after Canton: a circle of people he loved so fiercely his chest hurt when he thought about them. A family.

I’m trying to funnel this awfulness into something lovely. My salacious roman à clef will become a horror novel. My terror will become my readers’ terror. I will take my fugue state of delirious panic and compost it into a fertile bed of creativity—for aren’t all the best novels borne from some madness, which is borne from truth?

You want me to pretend that I love you.” “It’s easy,” he said. “Just assume our wills are united.” “What does that mean?” “Well, that we want all the same things. That we want what’s best for each other. That we take one another’s ends as our own, and that our ideal outcome is one in which we’re together. Haven’t you ever been in love?

He loves her. Of this he's certain. He loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes too quick, like it's ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she's dying. She's fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This he tells her. He doesn't tell her that his hand holds the blade.

Deep down she suspected being in love just was two people lying to each other, concealing their violence.

I feel like a meme of a clueless white person. The wildest thing about all this is that even now I cannot stop composing. I'm trying to funnel this awfulness into something lovely. My salacious roman à clef will become a horror novel. My terror will become my readers' terror. I will take my fugue state of delirious panic and compost it into a fertile bed of creativity — for aren't all the best novels borne from some madness, which is borne from truth? Perhaps, if I can capture all my fears and constrain them safely on the page, this will rob them of their power. Don't all the ancient myths tell us that we gain control over a thing once we name it?

Her distress belied a deeper terror, a terror which Robin felt as well, which was that Anthony had been expendable. That they were expendable. That this tower - this place where they for the first time had found belonging - treasured and loved them when they were alive and useful but didn't, in fact, care about them at all. That they were, in the end, only vessels for the language they spoke.

This is what I love most about writing—it offers us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, and the stories we tell about ourselves. It lets us acknowledge every aspect of our heritage and history.

And it was such a perfect tragedy, wasn’t it? An age-old story, parricide. The Greeks loved parricide, Mr Chester had been fond of saying; they loved it for its infinite narrative potential, its invocations of legacy, pride, honour, and dominance. They loved the way it struck every possible emotion because it so deviously inverted the most basic tenet of human existence. One being creates another, moulds and influences it in its own image. The son becomes, then replaces, the father; Kronos destroys Ouranos, Zeus destroys Kronos and, eventually, becomes him. But Robin had never envied his father, never wanted anything of his except his recognition, and he hated to see himself reflected in that cold, dead face.

London was voracious, was growing fat on its spoils and still, somehow, starved. London was both unimaginably rich and wretchedly poor. London - lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London - was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from the inside or cast outwards for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

Elites with entrenched interests will always hate you," Daji said. "That's inevitable. But the elites don't matter, the masses do. What you have to do is shroud yourself in myth. Your enemies' deaths become part of your legend. Eventually you will become so far removed from reality that right and wrong don't apply to you. Your identity becomes part and parcel of the idea of the nation itself. They'll love you no matter what you do.

...that look of wretched, desperate, and reproachful loyalty. It said, Do it. Take what you want, it said. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you.

In Classical Chinese, the characters 二心 referred to disloyal or traitorous intentions; literally, they translated as ‘two hearts’. And Robin found himself in the impossible position of loving that which he betrayed, twice.

and it made Robin deeply ashamed, for only now did he see the pattern of their friendship. Robin always had Ramy. But at the end of the day, when they parted ways, Victorie only had Letty, who professed always to love her, to absolutely adore her, but who had failed to hear anything she was saying if it didn't comport with how she already saw the world.

London - lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London - was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from inside or cast outward for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

One day Robin would ask himself how his shock had turned so easily to rage; why his first reaction was not disbelief at this betrayal but black, consuming hatred. And the answer would elude and disturb him, for it tiptoed around a complicated tangle of love and jealousy that ensnared them all, for which they had no name or explanation, a truth they'd only been starting to wake up to and now, after this, would never acknowledge.

He went back to his first morning in Oxford: climbing a sunny hill with Ramy, picnic basket in hand. Elderflower cordial. Warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. The air that day smelled like a promise, all of Oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love.

The Germans have this lovely word, Sitzfleisch,’ Professor Playfair said pleasantly when Ramy protested that they had over forty hours of reading a week. ‘Translated literally, it means “sitting meat”. Which all goes to say, sometimes you need simply to sit on your bottom and get things done.

We have to die to get their pity,' said Victoire. We have to die for them to find us noble. Our deaths are thus great acts of rebellion, a wretched lament that highlights their inhumanity. Our deaths become their battle cry. But I don't want to die, Robin.' Her throat hitched. 'I don't want to die. I don't want to be their tragic, lovely lacquer figure. I want to live.' 'I want to live,' she repeated, 'and live, and thrive, and survive them. I want a future.

Our deaths are thus great acts of rebellion, a wretched lament that highlights their inhumanity. Our deaths become their battle cry. But I don't want to die, Robin.' Her throat hitched. 'I don't want to die. I don't want to be their Imoinda, their Oroonoko. I don't want to be their tragic, lovely lacquer figure. I want to live.

London was both unimaginably rich and wretchedly poor. London – lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London – was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from inside or cast outwards for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

But that afternoon they could see with certainty the kind of friends they would be, and loving that vision was close enough.

Now look here, this is a bannock, and all the itty pieces are bannocks as well. Scones are those dry, crumbly things you English love to shove in your mouths

My only sin is loving literature too much, and refusing to let Athena’s very prenatal work go to waste.

Athena and I had bonded instantly over our love of the same book, Elif Batuman’s The Idiot.

She has fancy taste; she loves to show off everything she knows about scotch (she only calls it “whisky,” and sometimes “whisky from the Highlands”),

By the time they’d finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other – not quite yet, because true love took time and memories,

Take what you want, it said. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you.

This was their standard way of parting, the way they said everything they never spoke out loud. Fight well. Keep us safe. I love you.

Take what you want. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you

dabble in French and Italian, but my first love is German.

Scones are those dry, crumbly things you English love to shove in your mouths-

She loved when he just rambled, effortlessly profound, without an ounce of self-consciousness. She loved seeing how he processed the world; hearing his messiest, unformed thoughts.

He looks like the love interest from some dark and steamy YA novel come to life, all mussed dark hair and rough stubble. Only I’ve read his tweets, so I find him too pathetic to be sexy.

By the time they'd finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other - not quite yet, because true love took time and memories, but as close to love as first impressions could take them.

Victoire didn't need to ask who he meant. 'It was like an exercise in hope,' she said after a pause, 'Loving her, I mean. Sometimes I'd think she'd come around. Sometimes I'd look her in the eyes and think that I was looking at a true friend. Then she'd say something, make some off-the-cuff comment, and the whole cycle would begin all over again. It was like pouring sand into a sieve. Nothing stuck.

For the first time since I submitted the manuscript, I feel a deep wash of shame. This isn’t my history, my heritage. This isn’t my community. I am an outsider, basking in their love under false pretenses.

London was voracious, was growing fat on its spoils and still, somehow, starved. London was both unimaginably rich and wretchedly poor. London – lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London – was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from inside or cast outwards for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

My father was stationed in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘Three years, from 1825 to 1828. Could be you saw him around.’ ‘Lovely,’ said Ramy as he slathered jam over his scone. ‘Could be he pointed a gun at my sisters once.

To commune with the gods was to walk the dream world, the world of spirit. It was to relinquish that which she was and become one with the fundamental state of things. The space in limbo where matter and actions were not yet determined, the fluctuating darkness where the physical world had not yet been dreamed into existence. The gods were simply those beings that inhabited that space, forces of creation and destruction, love and hatred, nurturing and neglect, light and dark, cold and warm . . . they opposed one another and complemented one another; they were fundamental truths. They were the elements that constituted the universe itself.

You're blinded by your own desire for vengeance. Why are you doing this?" He reached out and grasped Alans shoulder. "For the Empire? Foc love of the country? Which is it Trengsin? What story have you told yourself?

To be fair, their fights were tabled rather than resolved. They had not really confronted the reasons why they’d fallen out, but they were all willing to blame it on stress. There would be a time when they had to face up to their very real differences, when they would hash things out instead of always changing the subject, but for now they were content to enjoy the summer and to remember again what it was like to love one another.

By the time they'd finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other — not quite yet, because true love took time and memories, but as close to love as first impressions could take them. The days had not yet come when Ramy wore Victoire's sloppily knitted scarves with pride, when Robin learned exactly how long Ramy liked his tea steeped so he could have it ready when he inevitably came to the Buttery late from his Arabic tutorial, or when they all knew Letty was about to come to class with a paper bag full of lemon biscuits because it was a Wednesday morning and Taylor's bakery put out lemon biscuits on Wednesdays. But that afternoon they could see with certainty the kind of friends they would be, and loving that vision was close enough.

You see," Rin told Kitay. "It's a good plan." "This has nothing to do with your plan." "Opium kills tigers. Literal and metaphorical/" "It's lost this country two wars," he said. "I don't mean to call you stupid, because I love you, but that plan is so stupid.

You see," Rin told Kitay. "It's a good plan." "This has nothing to do with your plan." "Opium kills tigers. Literal and metaphorical." "It's lost this country two wars," he said. "I don't mean to call you stupid, because I love you, but that plan is so stupid.

I wish he would see me,’ she kept repeating through her hiccups. ‘Why won’t he see me?’ And though Robin could think of any number of reasons – because Ramy was a brown man in England and Letty the daughter of an admiral; because Ramy did not want to be shot in the street; or because Ramy simply did not love her like she loved him, and she’d badly mistaken his general kindness and ostentatious verve for special attention, because Letty was the kind of girl who was used to, and had come to always expect, special attention

Anyway', Anthony said ushering them away, 'that's Literature. One of the worst applications of Babel education, if you ask me.' 'You don't approve?' Robin asked. He shared Victoire's delight; a life spent on the fourth floor would be wonderful. 'Me? No.', Anthony chuckled, 'I'm here for silver-working. I think the Literature Department are an indulgent lot, as Vimal knows. See, the sad thing is they could be they could be the most dangerous scholars of them all, because they are the ones who really understand languages - know how they live and breathe or how they can make our blood pump, our skin prickle with just a turn of a phrase. But they are just too obsessed fiddling with their lovely images to bother with how all that living energy might be channelled into something far more powerful. I mean, of course, silver.

London – lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London – was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from inside or cast outwards for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

He loves her. Of this he's certain. He loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes too quick, like it's ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she's dying. She's fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This he tells her. He doesn't tell her that his hand holds the blade.

What's this?' 'That's a bannock, dear,' said Mrs Piper. 'Scone,' corrected Professor Lovell. 'It's properly a bannock-' 'The scones are the pieces,' said Professor Lovell. 'The bannock is the entire cake.' 'Now look here, this is a bannock, and all the itty pieces are bannocks as well. Scones are those dry, crumbly things you English love to shove in your mouths-' 'I assume you're excepting your own scones, Mrs Piper. No one in their right mind would accuse those of being dry.' Mrs Piper did not succumb to flattery. 'It's a bannock. They're bannocks. My grandmother called them bannocks, my mother called them bannocks, so bannocks they are.

Then he blinked, because he'd just registered what this most mundane and extraordinary moment meant - that in the space of several weeks, they had become what he'd never found in Hampstead, what he thought he'd never have again after Canton: a circle of people he loved so fiercely his chest hurt when he thought about them. A family.

She recognized the way he was looking at her. It was how she’d once looked at Altan. It was the way she’d seen Daji look at Riga—that look of wretched, desperate, and reproachful loyalty. It said, Do it. Take what you want, it said. I’ll hate you for it. But I’ll love you forever. I can’t help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I’ll let you

Sometimes, fleetingly, the visions became a terribly twisted fantasy where Altan was not hurting her. A version where he loved her instead, and his strikes were caresses. But they were fundamentally irreconcilable because Altan's nature was the same as the fire that had devoured him: if he didn't burn everyone around him then he wasn't himself.

He went back to his first morning in Oxford: climbing a sunny hill with Ramy, picnic basket in hand. Elderflower cordial. Warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. The air that day smelled like a promise, all of Oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love. 'It's so odd,' Robin said. Back then they'd already passed the point of honesty; they spoke to one another unfiltered, unafraid of the consequences. 'It's like I've known you forever.' 'Me too,' Ramy said. 'And that makes no sense,' said Robin, drunk already, though there was no alcohol in the cordial. 'Because I've known you for less than a day, and yet...' 'I think,' said Ramy, 'it's because when I speak, you listen.' 'Because you are fascinating.' 'Because you're a good translator.' Ramy leaned back on his elbows. 'That's just what translation is, I think. That's all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your biases to glimpse what they're trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands.

It was like an exercise in hope', she said after a pause. 'Loving her, I mean. Sometimes I'd think she'd come around. Sometimes I'd look her in the eyes and think that I was looking at a true friend. Then she'd say something, make some off-the-cuff comment, and the whole cycle would begin all over again. It was like pouring sand into a sieve. Nothing stuck.

the only thing he’s tweeted was from over a month ago: Does anyone get weird looks when they ask for “real spicy, not just white people spicy” at Indian restaurants? (This got three likes, and the following response from one RichardBurns08: Me too. Been with my Thai wife for three years now, and they still think this gaijin can’t handle it. Love to prove them wrong!)

Now that the story’s been complicated, it’s not so satisfying to lambast me for stealing from a lovely, innocent victim. Now Athena is a pretentious snob, a maybe-racist (no one can really make up their minds on that one), a definite Han Chinese supremacist, and a thief in her own right for her representations of Korean and Vietnamese characters. Athena is the liar, the hypocrite. Athena Liu Is Posthumously Canceled.

He felt a crush of guilt then for loving them, and Oxford, as much as he did. He adored it here; he really did. For all the daily slights he suffered, walking through campus delighted him. He simply could not maintain, as Griffin did, an attitude of constant suspicion or rebellion; he could not acquire Griffin’s hatred of this place. Yet didn’t he have a right to be happy? He had never felt such warmth in his chest until now, had never looked forward to getting up in the morning as he did now. Babel, his friends, and Oxford – they had unlocked a part of him, a place of sunshine and belonging, that he never thought he’d feel again. The world felt less dark. He was a child starved of affection, which he now had in abundance – and was it so wrong for him to cling to what he had? He was not ready to commit fully to Hermes. But by God, he would have killed for any of his cohort.

Before I forget.’ Griffin reached into his coat, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and tossed it at Robin. ‘I got you something.’ Surprised, Robin pulled at the string. ‘A tool?’ ‘Just a present. Merry Christmas.’ Robin tore away the paper, which revealed a lovely, freshly printed volume. ‘You said you liked Dickens,’ said Griffin. ‘They’d just bound the serialization of his latest – you might have already read it, but I thought you’d like it all in one piece.

Before I forget.’ Griffin reached into his coat, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and tossed it at Robin. ‘I got you something.’ Surprised, Robin pulled at the string. ‘A tool?’ ‘Just a present. Merry Christmas.’ Robin tore away the paper, which revealed a lovely, freshly printed volume. ‘You said you liked Dickens,’ said Griffin. ‘They’d just bound the serialization of his latest – you might have already read it, but I thought you’d like it all in one piece.’ He’d

The university ripped us from our homes and made us believe that our futures could only consists of serving the Crown, said Robin. The university tells us we are special, chosen, selected, when really we are severed from our motherlands and raised within spitting distance of a class we can never truly become a part of. The university turned us against our own and made us believe ou only options were complicity or the streets. That was no favour, Sterling. It was cruelty. Don't ask me to love my master.

An age-old story, parricide. The Greeks loved parricide, Mr. Chester had been fond of saying; they loved it for its infinite narrative potential, its invocations of legacy, pride, honour, and dominance. They loved the way it struck every possible emotion because it so deviously inverted the most basic tenet of human existence. One being creates another, moulds and influences it in its own image. The son becomes, then replaces, the fater; Kronos destroys Ouranos, Zeus destroys Kronos and, eventually, becomes him.

He loves her. Of this he’s certain. He loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes too quick, like it’s ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She’s everything he’s not: unbound, reckless, free. He’s never known anyone like her. She terrifies him, and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she’s dying. She’s fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This, he tells her. He doesn’t tell her that his hand holds the

You’re so much stronger than I am,” said Altan. Then he let her go. She shook her head frantically. “No, I’m not, it’s you, I need you—”“Someone’s got to destroy that research facility, Rin.”He stepped away from her. Arms stretched forward, he walked towardthe fleet.“No,” Rin begged. “No!”Altan took off at a run.A hail of arrows erupted from the Federation force.At the same moment Altan lit up like a torch.He called the Phoenix and the Phoenix came; enveloping him, embracinghim, loving him, bringing him back into the fold.Altan was a silhouette in the light, a shadow of a man. She thought shesaw him look back toward her. She thought she saw him smile.She thought she heard a bird’s cackle.Rin saw in the flames the image of Mai’rinnen Tearza. She was weeping.The fire doesn’t give, the fire takes, and takes, and takes

London was drab and grey; was exploding in colour; was a raucous din, bursting with life; was eerily quiet, haunted by ghosts and graveyards. As the Countess of Harcourt sailed inland up the River Thames into the dockyards at the beating heart of the capital, Robin saw immediately that London was, like Canton, a city of contradictions and multitudes, as was any city that acted as a mouth to the world. But unlike Canton, London had a mechanical heartbeat. Silver hummed through the city. It glimmered from the wheels of cabs and carriages and from horses’ hooves; shone from buildings under windows and over doorways; lay buried under the streets and up in the ticking arms of clock towers; was displayed in shopfronts whose signs proudly boasted the magical amplifications of their breads, boots, and baubles. The lifeblood of London carried a sharp, tinny timbre wholly unlike the rickety, clacking bamboo that underwrote Canton. It was artificial, metallic – the sound of a knife screeching across a sharpening steel; it was the monstrous industrial labyrinth of William Blake’s ‘cruel Works / Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic, moving by compulsion each other’.* London had accumulated the lion’s share of both the world’s silver ore and the world’s languages, and the result was a city that was bigger, heavier, faster, and brighter than nature allowed. London was voracious, was growing fat on its spoils and still, somehow, starved. London was both unimaginably rich and wretchedly poor. London – lovely, ugly, sprawling, cramped, belching, sniffing, virtuous, hypocritical, silver-gilded London – was near to a reckoning, for the day would come when it either devoured itself from inside or cast outwards for new delicacies, labour, capital, and culture on which to feed.

He was so beautiful then, standing right in the space of the road where a beam of moonlight fell across his face, illuminating one side and casting long shadows on the other. He looked like glazed porcelain, preserved glass. He was a sculptor's approximation of a person, not human himself. He can't be real, she thought. A boy made of flesh and bone could not be so painfully lovely, so free of any blemish or flaw.

Take what you want, it said. I'll hate you for it. But I'll love you forever. I can't help but love you. Ruin me, ruin us, and I'll let you.

You cunt,” Souji gasped. “I love the way you talk to me,” she cooed.

You can’t kill me,” Altan hissed. “You love me.” “I don’t love you,” Rin said. “And I can kill anything.

We have to die to get their pity,’ said Victoire. ‘We have to die for them to find us noble. Our deaths are thus great acts of rebellion, a wretched lament that highlights their inhumanity. Our deaths become their battle cry. But I don’t want to die, Robin.’ Her throat hitched. ‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be their Imoinda, their Oroonoko.* I don’t want to be their tragic, lovely lacquer figure. I want to live.

And Robin found himself in the impossible position of loving that which he betrayed, twice.

Robin had always had Ramy. But at the end of the day, when they parted ways, Victoire only had Letty, who professed always to love her, to absolutely adore her, but who failed to hear anything she was saying if it didn’t comport with how she already saw the world.

The air that day smelled like a promise, all of Oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love.

Fight well. Keep us safe. I love you.

I don't love you," Rin said. "And I can kill anything.

Fire and water looked so lovely together. Its a pity they destroyed each other by nature.

Mr Baylis opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then closed it. Irritated as he was, he’d apparently realized that as much as he loved verbally berating the Chinese, he still couldn’t issue a declaration of war without his government’s backing.

At dawn,” she said. “At dawn,” he agreed. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. This was their standard way of parting, the way they said everything they never spoke out loud. Fight well. Keep us safe. I love you.

Fire and water looked so lovely together. It's a pity they destroyed each other by nature.

Yet, rin supposed, lovers could still inflict that kind of violence on each other. Hadn't Riga loved Daji? Hadn't Jiang loved Tseveri? Hadn't nezha once loved her?

I don’t love you,” Rin said. “And I can kill anything.

The Germans have this lovely word, Sitzfleisch,

And so perhaps it was entirely possible—common, even—for you to look into the eyes of someone you’d been falling in love with, someone you had spent every waking moment with, whose breathing sounded as familiar as your own—and fail to recognize them at all.

You want me to pretend that I love you.” “It’s easy,” he said. “Just assume our wills are united.” “What does that mean?” “Well, that we want all the same things. That we want what’s best for each other. That we take one another’s ends as our own, and that our ideal outcome is one in which we’re together. Haven’t you ever been in love?

I’m your proof.” “You’re biased.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are. You’re in love with me.” “Hush,” said Alice, blushing. “You can’t just go around telling everyone.

And if falling in love was discovery, was letting yourself be discovered the equivalent to being loved? For it tickled Alice to hear Peter make observations about her; to announce facts she’d never noticed about herself. Did she know, for instance, that she flopped her hands like a jellyfish whenever she disagreed with an argument? Did she know that she always ended up with the same diagonal streak across her forehead, left by pushing her hair back with the same chalky fingers? Peter determined that when Alice got sleepy, she lied—not in any malicious way, but in absurd ways; words just streamed from her half-conscious mouth in no sensical order. He was so amused by Alice’s unconscious lying that for weeks he recorded the sillier things she said, all so he could announce at the end of the month: “I have concluded that your lying, sleeping self has a single motive. And it is to continue sleeping for as long as possible. You will answer in any way that convinces your interlocutor to leave you alone. For instance, see here, my transcript from Wednesday—I ask you if you are an eggplant. And you agree you are an eggplant, but that I shouldn’t worry, and that everything is fine. In the past month I have heard you agree that you are the princess of Belgravia, that your toes are really baby hamsters, and that over the holidays, you will join me skiing on the sun. You are incorrigible, Law. Your unconscious id is fiercely protective of being left alone.

Don't ask me to love my master.

Nick and Magnolia conferred, then Magnolia trudged up first, Theophrastus in her wake. Alice’s mind went unbidden to acknowledgements of so many monographs. Last of all, many thanks to my loving wife, who kept our house, set our tables, fed our children, typed up all my notes, and came up with most of my original ideas as well. My dear, you make our lives possible; your love inspires me. “Who are you,” Alice scoffed. “The research assistants?

Last of all, many thanks to my loving wife, who kept our house, set our tables, fed our children, typed up all my notes, and came up with most of my original ideas as well.

It helped her understand that she had never really known Peter, and he had never really known her. She knew only a version of him, at a brief moment in time. But without those hazy recollections, without the historical fact that she had once giggled helplessly with her head lolling on Peter’s shoulder, she had no significant relationship to the Alice Law who was falling in love with Peter Murdoch at all. And if you could constantly reinvent yourself, cut away the parts of you that ashamed or hurt you, then how could you ever come to really know someone else? Were people all just living paradoxes, keeping up an illusion just long enough to survive contact with others? Were people then all a series of lies in the end?

And if falling in love was discovery