“My name is Towner Whitney. No, that's not exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time. I am a crazy woman... That last part is true.” — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“Nevertheless . . was a word, certainly, but much more than a word, it was a concept. "Nevertheless" was what you said when you… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“I realize the selfishness of children. We love them, and we revolve around their universe, but they don't revolve around ours.” — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
I'll pit my God against your god any day, I say to the Calvinists. It's not their god I'm praying to… The God I'm… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
The Language of Sand has something for everyone: myths, mystery, community, humor, grief, and ultimately healing. I found myself not only rooting for Abigail… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
There is lace in every living thing: the bare branches of winter, the patterns of clouds, the surface of water as it ripples in… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“If you had done your calculations properly, there would be a moment when you found that the star you were looking for was exactly… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
Sometimes, when you look back, you can point to a time when your world shifts and heads in another direction. In lace reading this… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“The song of the banshee varies with the listener. The dying hear the music of the spheres. Those left behind hear something else entirely.” — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
There is no wrong answer. Even so, it is easy to receive wrong results, simply by asking the wrong question. — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“The same way they celebrate the witches, who never existed at all in the days of the witch trials but who thrive here in… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
“My name is Towner Whitney. No, that's not exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time.… — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
A beautifully written tale that lives somewhere between landscape and memory, where regret becomes a prison, and a story told often enough becomes truth. — Brunonia Barry Copy Share Image
