“He is dirt under fingernails and the stick of sap on skin... I am saintly, poetic; I am demise, otherworld.” — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“How can you know love, and lose it, and go on living without it, and not feel the loss forever?" "You can't," Feather answered.… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
More than this, I believe that the only lastingly important form of writing is writing for children. It is writing that is carried in… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“Goodbye, fin,' I say. And I wish I was going with him, to some warm sheltered hideaway in the hills, wish that I, too,… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds. — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“Some things about him are the same as ever. He still looks painfully angelic.” — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
“We walked into the forests which encircled the town. I have never liked them, their dark throat, their sullen height, their slump-shouldered gloom. But… — Sonya Hartnett Copy Share Image
