Tristan Strong Quotes

Can’t live your life with grief whispering in your ear, pulling you this way and that. But you can’t shove it in a drawer deep inside yourself, neither. Naw, you got to sit grief down and talk to it. Listen to it. Come to terms with it. Pain is the body’s way of saying it’s healing, so you gotta let it heal.

Everybody has a story, Nana used to say when I was younger. Listen to it, and they’ll be friendly. Engage with it, and they’ll be your friend.

My fists were everywhere. Black fists in black gloves delivering black power two jabs at a time.

When grown-ups get on their high horses, those things gallop for days.

Tristan's decline was steady and sure after that. Every tragedy, every harship, seemed to suck him just a little bit deaper into the grip of his own personal hell. It felt like every slip up, every relapse, was pulling us down, until the weight of all our failures was dragging us under. At first we were drowning together, but my will to survive was too strong to let that continue forever. My hold on him became weaker and weaker, and eventually, every finger broken, my hands opened, and I let him go. No one could say I didn't fight for him. No one could say I didn't lose.

Tristan?” He turned his face to me, and it was streaked with tears. I wanted to wipe them away, tell him that everything would be all right, but my body was locked stiff with pain. “Promise me you’ll get better,” he whispered. “Tell me you’ll grow strong again. That you’ll gallop on horseback through summer meadows. Dance in spring rains and let snowflakes melt on your tongue in winter. That you’ll travel wherever the wind takes you. That you’ll live.” He stroked my hair. “Promise me.” Confusion crept over me. “You’ll be with me, though. You’ll do those things too?” He kissed my lips, silencing my questions. “Promise me.” “No,” I said, struggling against him.. “No, you said you were coming with me. You said. You promised.” He had to be coming with me - he said he was and Tristan couldn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie. He got to his feet and stepped into the water. I tried to struggle, but he was too strong. “Tristian, no, no, no!” I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I tried to hold on to him, but my fingers wouldn’t work. The cold of the water bit into my skin and I sobbed, terrified. “You said you would never leave me!” He stopped, the weight of his sorrow greater than any mountain. “And if I had the choice, I never would. I love you, Cécile. I will love you until the day I take my last breath and that is the truth. “ He kissed me hard. “Forgive me.

Even though I’d been terrified and in pain, I’d thought he was handsome. Except that wasn’t even a strong enough word: he was beautiful in a way that was almost painful. Flawless in a way that seemed surreal, like a figment of imagination. So perfect, it was off-putting, because while it was something that could be worshipped, it wasn’t something that could be touched or loved. He’d been snide, nasty, and wicked, and I’d loathed him. Except even then I’d sensed something wasn’t right, that there was a mismatch between what I was seeing and hearing and what I felt. It was this mismatch that made him captivating, and even as I was grasping for ways to escape, the need to know more about him had lurked in my heart.

It’s the spider’s web, an old African symbol for creativity and wisdom. It shows how tangled and complicated life can be. But with a little imaginative thinking, we can solve most of our problems and those of others.

Life comes at you fast, like a flurry of jabs and hooks, and sometimes the only thing you can do is learn how to take a few on the chin and keep on standing.

Sitting in an enclosed space with Granddad was like wiping your tears with sandpaper. Painful—excruciating, even—and you wondered why you ever thought it was a good idea.

No time to answer all those questions. Well, maybe there is, but you drain me. Like a straw. Here you come, and--fwoop!--all my energy is gone.

I had no right to decide what they were or weren’t capable of handling. Adults were always doing that to me, and I hated it.

The old man smiled. "You fighting for freedom, right? For your friends? Just like my nephew. I've seen power before, son, and I'll tell you the same thing I told him. It ain't just your freedom you gotta fight for, it's everyone's freedom. If one of us ain't free, none of us free.

When King Mark heard of the death of these two lovers, he crossed the sea and came into Brittany; and he had two coffins hewn, for Tristan and Iseult, one of chalcedony for Iseult, and one of beryl for Tristan. And he took their beloved bodies away with him upon his ship to Tintagel, and by a chantry to the left and right of the apse he had their tombs built round. But in one night there sprang from the tomb of Tristan a green leafy briar, strong in branches and in the scent of its flowers. It climbed the chantry and fell to root again by Iseult's tomb. Thrice did the peasants cut it down, but thrice it grew again as flowered and as strong. They told the marvel to King Mark, and he forbade them to cut the briar any more.

day,” said Miss Rose.

Hope? I don’t have any more of that. I’m clean out.

didn’t have a good history with school buses.

I mean…the stuffed animal I lost. A long time ago. And definitely wasn’t still sitting on my bed back in Chicago. ANYWAY…

You can take the girl out of the mountains, but you can't take the mountains out of the girl.

When gods prayed, things were about to get real.

Sometimes you just have to join the party, no matter how strange it is.

The iron monsters only pushed a wedge into a fractured landscape that already existed.

That’s what every adult has said when I’ve told them something wasn’t fair. You’ve probably heard the same thing. Oh, nothing’s fair. You have to play the cards you’re dealt. Well, why are we even playing cards? I don’t even like card games! Anyway…

Well, all memories server a purpose.... What are memories except stories we tell ourselves, right?

Well, all memories serve a purpose.... What are memories except stories we tell ourselves, right?

We grunted and snarled (guess who did which)

I had long wished to retell the story of Tristan and Isolde and originally sought to place it in a contemporary setting, but somehow couldn’t do it. When I moved with my family to the Southwest of France and farmed the land, I felt very strongly that it had a melancholy feeling and later discovered the reason for this. When I learned of the genocide of the Cathars, this unlocked the world of A FALLEN GOD.

They’re just trying to get you to say something so they can lecture you even more. I call them mom-ologues.

Sometimes there ain’t no fixing something, baby. If you wanna rebuild, you gotta break it down and start all over.

Blakeborough has never struck me as the kind of man to overlook criminal behavior, even in his brother.” “True. He has a strong moral sense, even if he does hide it beneath an equally strong aversion to people.” He drew back to stare at her. “Forgive me, sweeting, but I cannot imagine you married to him. His melancholy would give you fits within a month.” “Right,” she teased, “because I’m much better off married to a man who follows plans so slavishly that he stays awake half the night for fear of oversleeping and missing the coronation.” He arched an eyebrow. “I couldn’t sleep for watching you nurse Ambrose. It’s been some time since I…well…saw your charms unveiled in any other capacity. I have to take my pleasures where I may.” “Aw, my poor dear,” she said in mock concern. Deciding to put him out of his misery, she added, “I ought to say that’s what you get for being so unfashionable as to share a bedchamber with your wife, but as it happens, Dr. Worth--” The music abruptly ended, and the sound of a gong being struck broke into everyone’s conversations. They fell silent as Max went to stand at the entrance to the room with Victor and Isabella at his side. “Attention, everyone!” Max clapped his cousin on the back. “I am proud and pleased to introduce to you the new owner of Manton’s Investigations.” Cheers and applause ensued. When it died down, Tristan called out, “So the legal machinations are finally done? Dom has actually let go of the thing at last?” “I signed the papers yesterday,” Dom told his brother. He gazed fondly at Jane. “I decided I’d lost enough of my life to finding other people’s families. Now I’d rather spend time with my own.” “I’ll bet that didn’t stop you from writing a contract of epic proportions.” Lisette grinned at her husband. “How many stipulations did Dom make before he agreed to complete the sale?” “Only one, actually,” Max said. Everyone’s jaw dropped, including Jane’s. She gaped at her husband. “Only one? You didn’t dictate how Victor is to run the thing and when and where and--” “As you once said so eloquently, my love, ‘you can set a plan in motion, but as soon as it involves people, it will rarely commence exactly as you wish.’ There didn’t seem much point in setting forth a plan that wouldn’t be followed.” Dom smirked at her. “I do heed your trenchant observations, you know. Sometimes I even act on them.” She was still staring at him incredulously when he shifted his gaze to Victor. “Besides, Victor is a good man. I trust him to uphold the reputation of Manton’s Investigations.” Jane glanced at Victor. “You’re not going to change the name to ‘Cale Investigations’?” Victor snorted. “I’d have to be mad. Who wants to start from scratch to build a company’s reputation? It’s known for excellence as Manton’s, and it will always be known as Manton’s, as long as I have anything to say about it.” “So what was the one stipulation that Dom required?” Tristan asked. Dom scowled. “That it never, in any official capacity, whether in interviews or correspondence or consultation, be referred to as ‘the Duke’s Men.’” As everyone burst into laughter, Jane stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Now, that sounds more like you, my darling.

It's wrong to be ashamed of yourself. Presumptuous and stupid. I've made myself sick with shame, because I could feel so strongly about another woman. I should instead feel ashamed of the years since then, when I felt nothing. What does it matter who you love? Isn't it the feeling that means something? A child can cry itself sick over a dead bird. And as an adult squeeze out two tears for a dead person. Which sorrow is more genuine? Or more valuable? A shabby office drudge can love his middle-aged wife as passionately as Tristan his Isolde. Is love ridiculous because its object is imperfect and perhaps unaesthetic?

If you were, I don’t know, like… a female, and you saw me hitting that idiot, how would it look to you?” Tristan blinked at the road a minute. “Uh… like you have a nice, strong right and good reflexes? Not afraid of much? Think all problems are yours to solve first?” Matt frowned at him. “Are you sure that’s what a girl would think?” “Are we still allowed to call them girls if we’re trying to imagine their perspective? I think Allegra said something about using the word women.

Rain churns up plant oils into the atmosphere and activates the actinomycetes bacteria in the soil, and this is part of that unique smell of rain on dry ground we come to know so well. If rain falls after a long dry spell, it generates a particularly strong scent known as “petrichor.

She trusted Tristan and Dante more than she had ever trusted anyone but she knew she was still holding some part of herself back, especially when it came to Tristan. She trusted him to keep her safe. She trusted him not to hurt her. She trusted him enough to show him her jugular, over and over again. She was getting attached to him at a rapid rate she couldn’t and didn’t want to control. But there was a part of her, a rather small but strong part, that told her to hold some of herself back, to not surrender completely.