And Robespierre, the Incorruptible, who loved us so much he cut off our heads so we would not be troubled by too many thoughts
Jennifer Donnelly
Most of the mess that is called history comes about because kings and presidents cannot be satisfied with a nice chicken and a good loaf of bread.
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On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.
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For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
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Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window. He waits for me, too. And I - I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone - I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.
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She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.
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Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras to keep them warm.
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Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?
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Every heart is made of stories
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