Clary, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy โ just different. There's nothing wrong with being different.
Cassandra ClareWill sat where he was, gazing at the silver bowl in front of him; a white rose was floating in it, and he seemed prepared to stare at it until it went under. In the Kitchen Bridget was still singing one of her awful sad songs; the lyrics drifted in through the door: "Twas on an evening fair I went to take the air, I heard a maid making her moan; Said, 'Saw ye my father? Or ye my mother? Or saw ye my brother John? Or saw ye the lad that I love best, And his name it is Sweet William?" I may murder her, Tessa thought. Let her make a song about that.
Cassandra ClareMeet me in the courtyard in half an hour, then,โ said Will. โIโll wake Cyril. And be prepared to swoon at my finery.
Cassandra ClareI do not mean to seem indelicate or ungrateful," said Linette Owens, "but are you a dangerous lunatic?
Cassandra Clare