Here’s to books, the cheapest vacation you can buy.
You are speaking of my future lover. Be more respectful.
It's probably a bad indicator of your lifestyle when you miss your ex-boyfriend because he's absolutely lethal.
Eric moved the broom experimentally and made an attempt to sweep the glass into the pan while it lay in the middle of the floor. Of course, the pan slid away. Eric scowled. I'd finally found something Eric did poorly.
And by golly, love sure was a battlefield. Benatar was right about that.
There’s no way you can kill someone and get to the other side of the experience unchanged.
Then was ashamed of myself. I should be happy for what I'd been given. I hoped God hadn't noticed my lapse in appreciation.
You think that it’s not magic that keeps you alive? Just ‘cause you understand the mechanics of how something works, doesn’t make it any less of a miracle. Which is just another word for magic. We’re all kept alive by magic, Sookie. My magic’s just a little different from yours, that’s all.
My bullshit meter is reading that as 'false'.
Fiction just makes it all more interesting. Truth is so boring.
We could go back to your house. I can stay with you always. We can know each others bodies in every way, night after night. I could love you. I could work, you would not be poor. I would help you.
So you want me to go to a human orgy, where I will not be welcome, and you want us to leave before I get to enjoy myself? ~Eric Northman
I’d never seen anything like it. First a trial, then a few murders, then dancing. Life goes on. Or, in this case, death continues.
Could I tell them I was sorry their loved one was dead, when he’d tried to kill me? There was no rule of etiquette for this; even my grandmother would have been stymied.
A piece of happiness should never be taken as due.
Life had sure been simpler when I hadn't dated.
In the world I lived in, the world of human people, there were ties and debts and consequences and good deeds. That was what bound people to society; maybe that was what constituted society. And I tried to live in my little niche in it the best way I could.
The full moon symbol on my calendar no longer seemed to be a period marking the end of something, but just another way of counting time.
I put the books I was returning on the appropriate desk, and I began looking at the shelves of new arrivals. Most of them were some permutation on self-help. Going by how popular these books were and how often they were checked out, everyone in Bon Temps should have become perfect by now.
People are really interested in the concept of eternal youth in this plastic-surgery culture.
