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Diane Setterfield

  • Алиса Нисенбоймцитирует2 года назад
    She might have looked like a potato, but there was nothing that girl couldn't do, once she put her mind to it.
  • Алиса Нисенбоймцитирует2 года назад
    His voice had the unmistakable lightness of someone telling something extremely important.
  • Алиса Нисенбоймцитирует2 года назад
    Any governess, after the few hours I have had in this house, would have a full and clearpicture of the task awaiting her, but he is a man, hence cannot see how tiresome it is to have explained at length what one has already fully understood.
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    Reading can be dangerous.)
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails?
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic. When I at last woke up to myself, I could only guess what had been going on in the darkness of my unconsciousness.
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    At these times I stayed mum, dumbstruck by the momentary collision of two worlds that were otherwise so entirely apart.
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    For someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down.
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them.
  • Jelena Ranđelovićцитирует2 года назад
    People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist.
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