Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.

Guess what it is that turns plants to coal. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns limestone to marble. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns Briony's heart to stone. Pressure. Pressure is uncomfortable, but so are the gallows. Keep your secrets, wolfgirl. Dance your fists with Eldric's, snatch lightning from the gods. Howl at the moon, at the blood-red moon. Let your mouth be a cavern of stars.

People think me a sort of Florence Nightingale, but I have no heroic qualities. I simply don’t feel very much.

Our English monarchs are so unimaginative,” said Eldric. “They execute people in such tediously conventional ways.

You mind your tongue!” “Oh, I do,” I said. “I sharpen it every evening on your name.

A poem doesn’t come out and tell you what it has to say. It circles back on itself, eating its own tail and making you guess what it means.

I explained we lost the porch to the flood. Father hasn't gotten around to rebuilding it, although he's quite a good carpenter. He says if Jesus was a carpenter, its good enough for a clergyman. But I don't remember that Jesus let his house fall down.