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There are only two kinds of stories worth telling: the ones that send children to sleep, and the ones that send men to war.

Was that not how you loved someone? By hammering your body into whatever shape they liked best, and handing yourself to them like a hilt?

I loved you by then, or would soon, or always had. It was inevitable, foretold: When I look up, I will see the sky; when I fight, I will win; when I meet Owen Mallory, I will love him.

...tales of heroes from far away and far before my time, which had been given to me like hand-me-down clothes

In order to have a future worth fighting for, you must have a past worth remembering.

“And therethe story ends.” Such yearning in your voice, such relief, that for a moment I couldn’t answer. I felt you stiffen behind me, wary, mistrusting.
So I said, “Yes,” and it felt like sliding a knife between your ribs, or between my own, or as if there were no difference between the two. “The story ends there.”

The words came easily, pouring from the pen in a hot, spiteful rush. It was all lies, but what did I care? If I couldn’t have you or heal you or save you—if I couldn’t love you—then I would make all of Dominion love you, forever and ever.

Line by line I made you—shattered and silent, half blind—into Sir Una Everlasting, hero of Dominion. I could almost see her sometimes, a shining, heroic figure transposed over you. One day, I knew, she would replace you entirely, so that there would be no trace of you left at all.

When she looked up he was watching her silently, and then he turned away, uncomfortable, embarrassed by her unharnessed grief. He didn’t put his hand on her shoulder. Didn’t hold her. Didn’t say a word. Even these many years later, she was unable to forgive him that.

He thought back to a small grave, a tiny lifeless body, not much bigger than a man’s heart.

If an old man and woman conjured a little girl out of the snow and wilderness, what would she be to them? A daughter? A ghost?

“Stop decapitating the resurrected rooster,” Sera said crossly. “It’s impolite.”

"I get claustrophobic," says Jakkelsen.
"You're not the one who's going up in it [the dumbwaiter]."
"I get claustrophobic for other people, too."

Merciless order ought to prevail in archives. They are quite simply the crystallization of a wish to put the past in order.

It's freezing - an extraordinary 0° Fahrenheit - and it's snowing, and in the language that is no longer mine, the snow is qanik - big, almost weightless crystals falling in clumps and covering the ground with a layer of pulverized white frost.