There are so many worse things than death. Not to be loved or not to be able to love: that is worse.
Cassandra ClareBut it was mortality that made them what they were, the flame that blazed brighter for it's flickering
Cassandra ClareDon'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.
Cassandra ClareWhatโs that poem again?โ Will, who had been twirling his empty teacup around his fingers, stood up straight and declaimed: โEach spake words of high disdain, And insult to his heartโs best brotherโโ โOh, by the Angel, Will, do be quiet,โ said Charlotte, standing up. โI must go and write a letter to Aloysius Starkweather that drips remorse and pleading. I donโt need you distracting me.โ And, gathering up her skirts, she hurried from the room. โNo appreciation for the arts,โ Will murmured, setting his teacup down.
Cassandra Clare