Quotes About Expression

Copyright © 2012 by Kathryn Cramer

Copyright (C) 2012 by Elizabeth Bear

Copyright © 2011 by Adam-Troy Castro

BRIT MANDELO The Finite Canvas

Another language, sir? But I dare say it is much the same thing - a putain, as they say in France?

Say it with flowers.

Nobody says what they really mean, especially if they love you.

Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.

Using words to talk of words is like using a pencil to draw a picture of itself, on itself. Impossible. Confusing. Frustrating ... but there are other ways to understanding.

Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.

Are you hurt?" "Absolutely," I said. "Especially in my everywhere.

A poet is a musician who can't sing.

Hespe's mouth went firm. She didn't scowl exactly, but it looked like she was getting all the pieces of a scowl together in one place, just in case she needed them in a hurry.

Then I felt something inside me break and music began to pour out into the quiet. My fingers danced; intricate and quick they spun something gossamer and tremulous into the circle of light our fire had made. The music moved like a spiderweb stirred by a gentle breath, it changed like a leaf twisting as it falls to the ground, and it felt like three years Waterside in Tarbean, with a hollowness inside you and hands that ached from the bitter cold.

If I could sum it up in 50 words, I wouldn't have needed to write a whole novel about it.

Each woman is like an instrument, waiting to be learned, loved, and finely played, to have at last her own true music made.

I am no poet. I do not love words for the sake of words. I love words for what they can accomplish. Similarly, I am no arithmetician. Numbers that speak only of numbers are of little interest to me.

I learned to love the feel of good words.

Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not.

Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and fustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

Words cannot always do the work we need them to. Music is there for when words fail us.

I scowled as loudly as I could.

If I'd been whoring before class and waved a corset at him, no one would have thought twice about it!

We are the Edema Ruh, and the thing we value most every man possesses. You can tell us your story.