“Every time your work is read, you die several deaths for every word, and poetry is like being flayed alive.” — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“The best words in the best order...one always go the same shock of recognition and delight when someone's words swam up to… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“At breakfast!' said Louise in an awed voice. 'A man who can read poetry at breakfast would be capable of anything.” — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
I knew that I had turned my world back to cinders, sunk my lovely ship with my own stupid, wicked hands. — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“Sometimes, when you're deep in the countryside, you meet three girls, walking along the hill tracks in the dusk, spinning. They each have a… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
The essence of wisdom is to know when to be doing, and when it's useless even to try — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“some man of power must have existed, with gifts that seemed miraculous to his own times.” — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
It does not do to neglect the gods of a place, whoever they may be. In the end, they are all one. — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“this might be a beauty to send men mad. Her body was slight with a child’s slenderness, but her breasts were full and pointed… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“Literature and fiction are full of femmes fatales, but there is also an homme fatal, an altogether rarer bird, and pity help the lonely… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“The village is perched on a precipitous hillside, and the houses are built in tiers, one up behind the other, the floor of one… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“It is for you to choose. Choice is man's right, and for that I leave you free.” — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“I had been so used to God's voice in the fire and stars that I had forgotten to listen for it in the counsels… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
“It was over, the awkward moment, the dreaded moment, sliding past in a ripple of commonplaces, the easy mechanical politenesses that are so much… — Mary Stewart Copy Share Image
