The Binding Bridget Collins Quotes

somehow it went from too soon to too late, without the right moment in between.

May your darkness be quiet and the light come sooner than you need,

Memories,’ she said, at last. ‘Not people, Emmett. We take memories and bind them. Whatever people can’t bear to remember. Whatever they can’t live with. We take those memories and put them where they can’t do any harm. That’s all books are

Who the hell are you?" "I'm the witch's apprentice. Who the hell are you?

Books want to burn,' he says. 'They go up like that because - they're unstable, memories don't want to stay...

My heart was so light I could have flown. The memory of it takes my breath away. I didn’t know happiness was that simple.

Which was worse? To feel nothing, or to grieve for something you no longer remembered? Surely when you forgot, you’d forget to be sad, or what was the point? And yet that numbness would take part of your self away, it would be like having pins-and-needles in your soul … I took a deep breath.

Maybe I should have followed him; but somehow it went from too soon to too late, without the right moment in between.

Knowledge is always a kind of magic, I suppose.

Here the clock in the hall dredged up seconds like stones and dropped them again into the pool of the day, letting each ripple widen before the next one fell.

something inside me fell apart: like a pot that had been broken years ago but somehow managed to cling to it shape until someone nudged it

The darkness rolled and sucked like a tide, at arm’s length; and then, instead of drowning me, it receded.

Under everything is happiness so deep and rich it’s like dark wet earth. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why it’s there. But I could reach out and grab a fistful of it.

We make books - we make beautiful books - out of love.

But the part of me that yearned for music and noise was the old, healthy part; I knew that silence, work and rest were what I needed now. Even if, sometimes, it felt so lonely I could hardly bear it.

I ran through air that held me back.

Havilland calls himself an artist, but ultimately a binder is merely the rectum through which waste is squeezed into another shape.

I’d do almost anything not to have to be myself any more.

There's a growing trade in fakes, you know. Does that concern you? He paused, but he didn't seem surprised not to get an answer. I've never seen one - well, as far as I know - but I'm curious. Could one really tell the difference? Novels, they call them. They must be much cheaper to produce. You can copy them, you see. use the same story over and over, and as long as you're careful how you sell them, you can get away with it. It makes one wonder who would write them. People who enjoy imagining misery, I suppose. People who have no scruples about dishonesty. People who can spend days writing a long sad lie without going insane.

We take memories and bind them. Whatever people can’t bear to remember. Whatever they can’t live with. We take those memories and put them where they can’t do any more harm. That’s all books are.’ Finally I met her eyes.

We kissed as if we could stop the earth turning, as if we were enemies as well as lovers, as if we'd never see each other again.

Which was worse? To feel nothing, or to grieve for something you no longer remembered? Surely when you forgot, you'd forget to be sad, or what was the point?

I don’t want to see anyone and I don’t want to be alone.

It was driving me mad, this constant desire- no, need- to hit him, when I knew I didn't dare

– or like glimpsing my old self, from before I got ill. I hadn’t belonged anywhere for so long, and now this room, with its smell of leather and glue, welcomed me.

A rose petal so soft I can't feel where it begins.

Time expanded and shrank to instants and eternities: a spasm of pleasure, sunlight on the ceiling, his fingers digging into my shoulder, half-darkness and the rich smell of wine that was older than we were.

To have another person’s memory entrusted to you . . . To take the deepest, darkest part away from them and keep it safe, forever. To honor it, to make it beautiful, even though no one will ever see it. To guard it with your own life . . .

I knew the moment I saw him - it was love at first sight." "That's just a fairytale, Alta. You have to know someone before you fall in love.

Binders are born, not made. And you are a binder born, boy. You may not like the idea of it much now. But you'll grow to understand.

Pain prickles on the skin. Why am I so happy? Because of the colours. Because the drab wintry world is so bright I can hardly bear it. Because the pain is closer and the taste of soot in my mouth is as solid as any food I’ve ever eaten. Because I can smell roots and things asleep and seeds waiting to grow. Because …

Books should be beautiful. No one sees, that's not the point. It's a way to honour people - like grave-goods in olden times.

Gossip is public property.

I'd always loved the first days of spring, when suddenly the prison of winter broke wide open.

Suddenly the summer silence seemed fragile; I didn't want to let the rest of the world in, not for a split second.

De Havilland calls himself an artist, but ultimately a binder is merely the rectum through which waste is squeezed into another shape.

the fear with elderly characters is the high likelihood of their death...

I had to go outside and listen to the dry wind in the reeds, just to be sure that I hadn't gone deaf.

I know why you hated me,' He said. 'Because you wanted me, and you were scared.

It is natural, after all. One generation fades as another matures. The old order gives way to the new. And so on.

There was sympathy in her face, as if I could tell her everything and she would understand.

The snow has melted and there’s a fine drizzle falling. It sweeps across the drive like gauze. Grey, grey, grey. I want to drink it until it turns my blood into water and my brain to nothing.

A ray of red sunlight blazes over my shoulder, swift as a curtain being drawn back. Shadows sharpen on the pavement. Frost sparkles scarlet on the edges of bricks and windowsills. Then it's gone.

Memories,” she said, at last. “Not people, Emmett. We take memories and bind them. Whatever people can’t bear to remember. Whatever they can’t live with. We take those memories and put them where they can’t do any more harm. That’s all books are. Finally I met her eyes.

Memories,” she said, at last. “Not people, Emmett. We take memories and bind them. Whatever people can’t bear to remember. Whatever they can’t live with. We take those memories and put them where they can’t do any more harm. That’s all books are.” Finally I met her eyes.

On the other side of us, under the setting sun, the marshes lay flat and endless: green speckled with bronze and brown, glinting with water. I could smell sodden grass and the day’s warmth evaporating. There was a rank moldering note under the scent of moisture, and the vast dying sky above us was paler than it should have been.

I missed Lucian so much it was like a wound. I could feel the outline of it, a desperate fiery ache that started under my sternum and ended somewhere in my groin. If I moved, or spoke, or inhaled too deeply, it hurt more. I'd never thought I could want to die: but it was like drowning over and over again, except that the final blackness never came.

Like a doctor, aren't you," he said, without a question mark. "You come here and drain a boil. A huge throbbing carbuncle, the size of someone's whole life. Then you wash your hands and pretend you've never smelt anything but roses. And you walk away with heavier pockets, until the next time. So like a doctor. All for the benefit of mankind. Except you're really doing it because men like my father like the taste of pus...