He glanced furtively up and down the hallway. "Hodge too. Everyone wants to talk to me. Except you, I bet you don't want to talk to me," said Jace. "No," said Clary. "I want to eat. I'm starving.

There are so many worse things than death. Not to be loved or not to be able to love: that is worse.

But it was mortality that made them what they were, the flame that blazed brighter for it's flickering

Don't make it sound like that. Like some ordinary sort of grief. It's not like that. They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite. Over. This is a fresh wound every day.

What’s that poem again?” Will, who had been twirling his empty teacup around his fingers, stood up straight and declaimed: “Each spake words of high disdain, And insult to his heart’s best brother—” “Oh, by the Angel, Will, do be quiet,” said Charlotte, standing up. “I must go and write a letter to Aloysius Starkweather that drips remorse and pleading. I don’t need you distracting me.” And, gathering up her skirts, she hurried from the room. “No appreciation for the arts,” Will murmured, setting his teacup down.

unrequitted love amuses me

i would say it was nice to meet you, but the fact is it wasnt. in fact, it was quite awkward.