Top 165 Quotes & Sayings by Ann Aguirre

The people I write are real to me, and basically, they tell me about their environments on a need-to-know basis.

People are capable of incredible gallantry and terrible cruelty in situations of extreme duress. I tried to showcase that range in 'Enclave.'

My process seems to be unusual in the sense that I don't create worlds before characters. With me, character is king.

Too often, women are portrayed in two ways: as prizes to be won by men or as damsels in distress.

I've held my silence when I probably shouldn't have. But I was in the minority, a woman writing SF, and I was afraid of career backlash. I was afraid of being excluded or losing opportunities if I didn't play nice.

Since becoming aware of the need to be inclusive, I've tried to make my stories broader and more representative of our world.

In 2007, I sold my first book, 'Grimspace.' It says it's SF on the spine. I believe it to be SF, though it's certainly written differently. I write in first person, present tense, and the protagonist is a woman with a woman's thoughts, feelings, and sexual desires.

My life experiences are different than the average person because I've spent the last 10 years living in Mexico. I generally don't know what's going on in America, and when I do visit for work, I'm often interrogated about my life choices by random strangers.

I remember when I was a kid, I could never find anything positive about chubby girls. If a girl was pudgy in books, she wasn't okay. She couldn't be happy or make friends unless she lost weight.

People need to believe they can make a difference - that one person standing strong can turn the tide.

I've tried to be inclusive in my '2B' series. Over the course of three books, I wrote African-American characters, a paraplegic character, gay and lesbian characters, a bisexual, Jewish heroine, a multiracial hero, Korean and Chinese-American characters, and a multiracial supporting character.

I am a woman. I write SF. And it's not acceptable to treat me as anything less than an equal. I won't stand for it.

I immerse myself in everything I write; I feel what my characters do. I suffer with them. I cry as I type, sometimes to the point that I can't see the screen.

I had a respected SF writer call me 'girlie' and demand that I get him a coffee, before the panel we were on together.

But wishes were empty thoughts, cast down a dark hole. They didn't come true unless you worked for them. I'd learned that about the world, if nothing more.

Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he’s seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you’re still alone.

The whole world is like Whitewall's razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there's no purpose to it.

She carries chaos like an overcoat.

Love sounded terrible if it made you so weak, you couldn't survive with out it.

I'll always want him. Until every sun goes dark in every sky, until I am nothing more than long-forgotten cosmic dust, I will want him. And even then I suspect my particles will long for his.

Dying isn’t like living; it requires no effort at all.

But the world moves on, even when you don't want it to, even when change feels like the end of everything. It never stops.

His lashes, fluttered like butterfly wings. "I could've made you happy, dove." "You did," I whispered

Sometimes it felt as if all happiness came at a price. You could never, ever, have perfection. Life gave you beauty so you could bear the pain.

. . . and I don’t expect him to suborn his life into mine any more than I would change my dreams for him. We’re not one soul, one being, however much we love each other.

My skill didn't lie in planning battles, only in fighting them.

I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.

With a polite smile, I decided she was insane.

If I ever win you," he said, anger bright in his pale eyes, "it will be because you want me more. Not because he's gone. I'm nobody's second best.

If so, I couldn't imagine how the opposite gender managed to get out of bed in the morning. They might be lovely to look at, but clear thinking wasn't their strong point.

If this is the last time, let me say it so you never forget. I will always love you, Deuce. No matter where souls go, mine will be looking for you, solnyshko moyo." "No. I want a promise instead. Promise you'll fight like you never have, so when the dying stops, you'll be on your feet looking for me here." "I swear.

Sometimes I miss the old me.

Survival feels like cowardice.

I’ve lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.

We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.

Most people can’t stomach silence; it provides too much opportunity to think about things they prefer to avoid.

I felt like the blonde in every horror movie who hears a noise in the basement and goes to investigate alone. Sometimes you smell the stupid all around you, but you step in it anyway.

I imagine the ones we’ve lost as ghosts who prowl about the edges of the light, waiting for us to join them. Sometimes that’s terrifying, and sometimes it’s reassuring, a promise of homecoming.

Once exposed, a secret loses all its power.

People try to make sense of things, and if they don’t know the answers, they make them up,because for some, a wrong answer is better than none.

I know you have bad news,” I say softly. “I’m ready for it.” But that’s not true. One is never ready. You just lie and say you are and hope you can take the hit on the chin without going down.

Sometimes broken things heal crooked. The pieces didn’t fit anymore.

Sometimes I could almost hate you because you don't understand how much you mean to me, how dark and empty I was before. Solnyshko moyo.

Before he bent his head, I knew what he was going to do. Touch his lips to mine. Oh, and I wanted him to... I stilled, hardly daring to breathe. The old refrain of cant and shouldn't sank beneath the weight of new worlds like please and yes.

He would bear scars because of me, as I carried them for him.

But the world moves on, even when you don’t want it to, even when change feels like the end of everything. It never stops. That’s harsh and magical and somewhat comforting because nothing is immutable, however much we want it to be. Moments cannot be caught like fossils in amber, ever- perfect,ever-beautiful. They go dark and raw, full of shadows, leaving you with the memories. And the world moves on.

For I need this scar over my heart to remind me. Crazy as it sounds, if I can bear the wound on my body, it lessens what I must carry on my soul. How he knew that about me, I cannot fathom.

Each love is unique. Special. Giving to one never takes away from another.

Time is fluid, so the moments where everything feels perfect pass in a wink, and those where you're on your knees in despair drag on like the death of a thousand cuts.

Sometimes the past needed to stay buried; it was the only way you could move on. And sometimes you had to dig it up, because that too was the only way.

You don’t know what it’s like to be alone until you’ve had someone inside your head.

He’s worth fighting for, but I won’t change who I am for any man. No more than he should alter himself to suit me.

Each time Stalker called you 'dove', I wanted to hit him. Because you're not a little gray bird... you're all the light in the world.

He's earned a lifetime of peace and happiness, but some people never get what they deserve. That's why there are saints in gutters and sadists in palaces.

But I miss the woman I was, even as I learn to accept the new creature I’ve become.

His reply offers infinite solace in a single word. Always.

I have had passionate kisses and fierce ones, kisses so sweet they tasted like pure honey and kisses that cut like knives, but until this moment, I’ve never had one that said both hello and good-bye.

More than most, I know the pain of surviving.

It’s what you do that counts, not what you consider doing.

He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.