Book Title Quotes

“Humans. For the most part, you are dull and blundering. But occasionally, you can be remarkably bright creatures.”
― Shelby Van Pelt, Remarkably Bright Creatures

“The thin how-to book belonging to Smittie had a dark and perplexing title—HOW TO COMMIT SUICIDE EFFECTIVELY EVERY TIME.”
― Jasun Ether, The Beasts of Success

“The Side Effects of Dying in Your Pants isn't really funny… Alright, it's a little funny.”
― John Green

“Lengo la jina la kitabu ni kuishawishi hadhira kusoma dibaji, na lengo la dibaji ni kuishawishi hadhira kusoma salio la kitabu kizima.”
― Enock Maregesi

“She looked up to see a knob of canary-yellow butter being carried towards her in a glass-lidded container.
'All this butter just for me, when there's a national shortage...'
Hearing Rika mumbling these words, the maitre d' smiled and lifted the lid of the dish.
'This butter had been flown in especially from overseas. Pleas help yourself to as much as you'd like.'
Confronted with an overwhelming selection of different kinds of bread on the trolley, Rika chose the simplest option she could see--- a piece of baguette. Once again, she thought that she should have come with Reiko. Reiko would have told her which to choose. Rika spread a thick layer of butter on the bread. The butter, of a firmness that would break apart slowly on the tongue, went sinking into the crumb of the baguette. That alone was enough to make Rika glad she'd come.
The next course to be served was a chilled dish of avocado and snow crab stacked delicately like layer cake, topped with a generous helping of caviar. The acidity of the pomegranate seeds that exploded juicily in her mouth accentuated the creamy richness of the avocado and the sweetness of the crab flesh. Their unabashed scarlet hue brought the color palette of the whole plate to life. Chased by the champagne, the taste of the crab and the caviar expanded like light suffusing her mouth.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“She melted the butter in the pan. She warmed the egg yolks by immersing them in a bowl of hot water and mixing them with vinegar, then pouring in the shining golden butter little by little. She moved the whisk ceaselessly, making the contents of the bowl whirl round and round. Having observed Chizu's troubles up close, and learned how to avoid them, she succeeded in producing the fine egg-colored foam relatively quickly. Her whole hand, from the wrist down, was dancing on a waltz.
The tigers in the book, whose desires had kept them spinning round and round until they transformed into butter, had ended up in the stomachs of Little Babaji's family. Even after their deaths, Kajii's victims continued to be exposed to and consumed by the curious gaze of the general public.
Rika had stopped believing that any blame lay with the victims themselves. Being sucked into the vortex of Kajii's ominous power, like she herself had been, was something that could happen to anybody. Thinking this, she went on single-mindedly whisking the butter.
Through her adventures with the quatre-quarts on Valentine's Day, she'd learned that waiting on the far side of all of this seemingly endless whisking was not stasis or evaporation, but emulsification. If she couldn't tear her eyes away from Kajii, if she couldn't stop herself from spinning round and round, then maybe all that was left to do was to grip on to Kajii with all her might, so as to ensure she wasn't shaken off.
'Done!' Rika said to herself and lifted up the whisk. The sauce of warm, bright yellow that came dripping off the whisk was smooth as cashmere.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“At the end of The Story of Little Babaji they make pancakes out of the tigers that have transformed into butter, and eat them. I think they mix the tiger-butter into the batter. Or put it on top. Maybe they even melt it in the frying pan.'
But Rika's words got lost amid the sound of the pancake mix being poured into the pan. She heard the noise of the pancake being flipped and sticking again to the pan. After a while, Makoto came over with a plate in his hand. The perfectly round, golden brown pancake was steaming, the maple syrup shining, and the knob of butter on top beginning to melt. She brought her hands together, and said, 'Itadakimasu.'
With a fork, Rika broke off a small piece of the pancake, revealing its bright yellow insides. The way that the batter with its structure of fine air bubbles and countless little pillars supported the surface layer, burnished to a deep brown, was proof that it had been well mixed. The butter slid around sluggishly. Rika put a tiny sliver into her mouth. She instructed her teeth to bite, and with some effort, succeeded in moving her mouth, chewing the soft, warm pancake into which the salted butter and syrup had been absorbed.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“The politics of Faerie--- indeed, everything about the place--- revolves around stories. Stories shape the realms and the actions of those who dwell there. Some of those stories are known to mortals, but many others have been lost, both to us and the Folk."
Farris nodded. "Then your book will be about the Macan tale?"
"That will be a piece of it," I said, leaning forward as I warmed to the topic. "I thought I would create a compendium of tales told by the Folk of the Silva Lupi. I mentioned that crow woman, bound by an ancient curse laid upon her by Wendell's father. I have met a dozen such creatures in Wendell's realm, enmeshed in stories every bit as fascinating as hers. If I can gather enough of them together, I believe we scholars might come close to grasping the true essence of the Silva Lupi--- which is, like all of Faerie, an intricately woven tapestry of story.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“Wendell and I would spend the next several months traveling his realm. Our realm. I must get used to that. I would take copious notes all the while, no doubt filling several of the ridiculous journals the bookbinders kept churning out, and stumbling across so many research questions it would take me ten lifetimes to tackle them all. And after that, who knows? I have my compendium of tales to finish--- I plan to gather stories as Wendell and I travel, adding them to the small hoard I've already collected. My presence is not required in the mortal world until October, when I will be delivering a presentation on several key findings in my map-book, which shall be published in a month's time. When the Berlin Academy of Folklorists sends you an invitation to their annual conference, you cannot say no.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The butter should still be cold. Remove it from the fridge just before. Superior-quality butter should be eaten when it's still cold and hard, to truly luxuriate in its texture and aroma. It will begin to melt almost immediately with the heat of the rice, but I want you to eat it before it melts fully. Cool butter and warm rice. First of all, savor the difference in their temperatures. Then, the two will melt alongside one another, mingle together, and form a golden fountain, right there inside your mouth. Even without seeing it, you just know that it's golden--- that's the way it tastes. You'll sense the individual grains of rice coated in butter and aromatic fragrance as if the rice were being fried will ascend to your nose. A rich, milky sweetness will spread itself across your tongue...”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“She took the butter from its box and opened up its foil wrapper. It was hard and cold. She didn't want to create more washing-up than necessary and she still hadn't located a chopping board, so she sliced it on top of the paper and placed it on the scale. There was a tiny fragment left over on the knife, which she raised to her mouth. The lack of salt meant it coasted across her tongue like a placid midwinter wave, leaving her with an impression of silkiness and concentrated fat.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“She floated unsteadily over to the dairy section, and found her eyes immediately directed to the small packet with its crisp navy logo exerting enough power to eclipse all the other products around it.
To think that a regular supermarket such as this one would stock Échiré butter! Checking the price, she saw it was less than a thousand yen. Not just that, either, but there was a whole assortment of different kinds of butter filling the display: cultured, aged, salted, unsalted... Until just a few months ago, it was difficult to find. Things changed at such speed. For a while, Rika stood still, bathing in the white light of the dairy section.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“Soon after, Rika heard the sizzle of butter melting in a hot frying pan. It smelt to her like life itself. Maybe because it was animal fat, there was rough, raw depth and fragrance to its smell, which you didn't get with vegetable oil or margarine.”
― Asako Yuzuki, Butter

“For a year or so the group stays intimate and exclusively feminine. But then, after Marie coins the term "contes de fées," or fairy tales, the fame of these "Modern Fairies" begins to spread too fast--- though it is flattering in a manner, of course.”
― Clare Pollard, The Modern Fairies

“The nurse looked around at the jars of water in the corner, the dirt scattered on the floor, the iron and dogwood bark that Luann had brought from the cabin crowding the nightstand. She stared at them as if they were nuts, the ones that couldn't be helped. The kind of strange folk you had to give up on.”
― Alli Dyer, Strange Folk

“There once was a girl of the Moth Folk, dark-winged, strong, and fearless. Her eyes were like the starlit sky; her footfall soft as shadow. And although she was lovely, love had no place in her heart, for hers was the tribe of the Moth King, who had waged a war on love, for ever and ever.
But love, like all forbidden things, was fascinating to her. Every night of the clear full moon, she would go to the Moonlight Market and watch the traders sell their wares: printed books of every kind; pomegranates of the south; wines from the islands; gems from the north; flowers that bloomed only once in their lives. But she only had eyes for the sellers of charms and glamours. Here, there were spells for a broken heart, or to spin dead leaves into gold, or to rekindle a memory, or to summon the western wind. Most of all, there were love spells: tiny bottles of colored glass with stoppers worked in silver filled with potions made from the heart of a rose, or the tail fin of a mermaid. Here were glamours to melt a lover's heart: candles of every color; tokens of remembrance; silk-bound books of poetry.
But among all the love-knots and bonbons and pressed flowers and handkerchiefs, the Moth girl never truly saw the nature of her enemy, for it seemed to her that Love was weak, and simpering, and faithless. She told herself she was too strong to fall for its blandishments. Until one day, at the Market, she saw a boy with a glamorie-glass in his hand, standing by a display of books, and stories, and legends, and memories.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“She looked down and saw in surprise an elegant pattern of flowers and vines that wove around her fingers, and in the center of her palm, an open eye.
"This is so you will see yourself as I see you," Nour said, her eyes prickling with tears.
Dina stood and turned to face the mirror. For a moment she did not recognize her reflection. That woman was beautiful, glowing, beaming a smile, kindness and joy radiating from her. That woman was Dina. That's me.
The hex had felt insurmountable, impossible to break, even once she had known she was the cause of it. It was one thing to be told she needed to love herself to break the curse, but quite another to do it in practice. But as Dina looked at herself, everything fell into place. Her family accepted her for who she was. And if she told herself that she was worthy of love, then it was true. And if it was true, there was no need for the hex anymore. No need for that wall that she had built between herself and others to keep them from seeing her as she truly was. Scott loved her, and she loved him. And they would be okay.
She shuddered in a breath as the insidious magic of the hex began to dissipate, like ashes blowing away after a fire's gone out. Then her ears popped, and the hex was gone.
Dina looked across at her mother, smiling through her tears.
"It's gone," she cried. "Mama, I'm free.”
― Nadia El-Fassi, Best Hex Ever

“It would be two years before the townspeople crowded around to see the peculiar garden of Harriet Hunt, gawping at her floral creations, the trees she had made grow in such a short span of time, the beauty of it all.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“I suppose you'll be looking for a duchess now that you're a duke. An ordinary, proper lady."
His breath puffed against her lips. "If I wanted an ordinary duchess, I'd never have fallen in love with you.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, No Ordinary Duchess

“Lucy remembers seeing the Odyssey among the books heaped on Jess's dining room table, and thinks of Charybdis and Scylla, female nymphs who became monsters of the sea. The sirens, luring sailors to their deaths.”
― Emilia Hart, The Sirens

“You know there are ways to travel; you heard the stories even when you were alive. Spirits returning for festivals. For offerings left in their name. For Halloween. There were spirits that haunted old Victorians, and gas station bathrooms, and amusement parks. It can't be that hard.
But when you start asking around, other spirits--- Hungry ones who've been in the Food Hall much longer, old-timers with sunken faces, shadowed limbs--- tell you that there's only one way back that can sate the Hunger.
They call it the Magic Meal. A Reincarnosh. An Aftertaste.
It has a lot of names, but if you find yours, it's a Golden Ticket. A way to return to your Living. A last meal to help them finally let you go.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“@EatPostLike
In pursuit of all things delicious.”
― Emily Arden Wells, Eat Post Like

“But, hey, it sounds as if your mobile vet business has a name."
"It sure does," Evie said. She held her hands out, as if pointing at a marquee. "Pugs and Kisses to the Rescue.”
― Farrah Rochon, Pugs and Kisses

“You didn't just remove a full-size human statue from the library without anyone noticing, especially from as prominent and well-guarded a site as the North Reading Room. She couldn't imagine how the head librarian had managed it. She hoped Rijes hadn't endangered herself in the process. But regardless of how...
It seemed clear to her that regardless of how, these plants were why. It was far too much of a coincidence otherwise. She was guilty of plant magic; suddenly, here she was in an enchanted greenhouse that needed magical help.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Enchanted Greenhouse

“There was this time of morning that always gave me peace. I liked to call it the "Violet hour."
Not because it was my alone time, although it was, but because the light was the prettiest blue violet. It was the hour before the sun would rise, turning the pitch-black velvet night into the fresh blue brightness of day. It happened right before the world woke up and gave me the slice of the morning to really think, or pray, or problem-solve.”
― Victoria Benton Frank, The Violet Hour

“Yes, I always go out this early for a walk when the light is purple"--- he gave me a shy smile---"or violet..."
"I... me too. It's the Violet hour!”
― Victoria Benton Frank, The Violet Hour

“I am re-inventing myself, writing my own story; changing my name to fit the course that I have chosen for myself. The old woman called me Vianne Rocher. Not Rochas, but Rocher, like the chocolate. This seems meaningful, somehow. As if that village on the Baïse and the chocolaterie on Allée du Pieu might both be part of my future. And before I settle anywhere, I need to learn how to be Vianne.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“Behind me, the cries of the gulls on the wind are scratches of silver in the sky. And it smells of smoke, and the carnival, and of the river in the sun, and sugared dough fried on the hot plate, and herbs to heal a troubled heart. I walk from the harbor and do not look back.
Vianne, or Mother?
Vianne it is.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“It is in Italian, and I can just read the recipe title, scrawled in large cursive above the incomplete ingredients list. Torta Fioritura Degli Aranci. I translate it in my head. Orange Blossom Cake. That sounds yummy... and intriguing.”
― Rachel Linden, The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake

“Often I think back to that day three years ago when I did not take the bite of the Orange Blossom Cake. Sometimes I regret that I missed my chance to see the happiest moment of my life, but mostly I just feel grateful that I found the courage to take a risk for my right hard things. Now I try to live as though each day may indeed contain the best moment of my life. One day it will, but I won't know it until I look back on my life from beyond the grave, with the wisdom and perspective of eternity. So I embrace each day as fully as I can, trying to infuse each hour with purpose, meaning, love, and joy. I think this is the most important lesson of the cookbook. This is the true secret of Orange Blossom Cake.”
― Rachel Linden, The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake