Quote by Frances Hardinge

“I smoothed my grandmother’s starched white damask cloth over the battered pine harvest table in the dining room, and with my fingertips, traced the…

— Mary Kay Andrews

“That is how a farmer walks across the soil in spring--and later, in summer, the traces of his steps are obscured by the billowing…

— Joseph Roth

“In this room hung with the trophies of culture, her story sounded melodramatic and rough. She felt like a squaw explaining how you tanned…

— Wallace Stegner

“He wondered if he would live to see the blossom on his apple trees and felt an answering pop inside himself. Ah, so it…

— Salman Rushdie

“Since that time Saracen had been making a name for himself. That name was not ‘Saracen’. Indeed the name was more along the lines…

— Frances Hardinge

“Moreover, he had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish were…

— Nikolai Gogol

“When a basket is woven, each strand of grass, or reed, or wool, or root, must pass repeatedly through human hands, and this, the…

— Katharine Haake

“Things seemed to consist not of wood and stone but of some grandiose and infinitely tender immorality that, the moment it came in contact…

— Robert Musil

“Had his brain been constructed of silk, he would have been hard put to it to find sufficient material to make a canary a…

— P.G. Wodehouse

“How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and monring dew”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

“What grasses the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth.”

— George R.R. Martin