A Quote by Maggie Stiefvater

That was a weird thought. My straight-up mother being bothered by faeries? Delia was even weirder. I could picture the scene. Faerie: Come away, human. Delia: Why? Faerie: Untold delights and youth forever. Delia: I'm holding out for a better offer. Ta.
I will not allow a Delia Smith cookbook in my house! It's all so precise with Delia, and it makes cooking seem so inaccessible.
Delia picked at the raw sores of her conscience...Drunk or sober, Delia lived in the small town in her heart, ignoring the world in which all her love had turned to grief.
Where are you going?" I asked, feeling guilty for not being able to hang out with him. "To find a faerie to kill me, of course." He winked at us, then pretended to fall straight through when the faerie door opened. Even Arianna laughed as the door closed behind him.
I laughed, loud enough that Delia looked up at me. She made motions for me to come over, but I pretended to be looking past her into the food tent. "Hurry. Pretend you're pointing something out so I can pretend not to see her." Luke put a hand on my shoulder and pointed with the other towards the sky. "Look, the moon." "That was the best you could come up with?" I demanded.
When I was in elementary school, I was a big fan of the zip-off pants that could be turned into shorts. The Delia's catalog used to be my bible.
When I was in elementary school I was a big fan of the zip-off pants that could be turned into shorts. The Delia's catalog used to be my bible.
I would figure out, later, how to explain to my boss that, for me, Delia will never be a story, but a happy ending.
Delia was an overbearing cake with condescending frosting, and frankly, I was on a diet.
Perhaps all women are part faerie, for what woman can deny her faerie blood when the portals to her own land are open; when the full moon sings its insistent song; when sorrow and passion and rage pulse through her body at moon times. This is why women are the chosen ones of Faerie, pat of the vibrant, fluid, emotional soul of the world.
I knew her well enough to understand that when Delia pushed you away, it was her way of making sure she didn't get shoved first.
Delia Smith is, actually, my bete noire. I consider her a most pernicious influence.
Everyone thinks when they start writing that they can't do it. I was lucky. My sister Delia was the most important person in terms of encouraging me.
I was a decent cook - competent enough to turn out the standard Eighties chalet fare: beef Wellington, banoffee pie, Delia's chocolate bread-and-butter pudding - but it wasn't haute cuisine.
Faeries are unaffected by alcohol, but much to her surprise—and the faeries’ undoing—they get very, very drunk on carbonation. Using copious amounts of Coke, she was able to discover a single faerie’s true name.
You need a constant money source to live in New York City unless you're independently wealthy, which I'm not. But, from writing about art, I had met some artists in L.A. They said, "Why don't you try living out here?" So I traded apartments with the painter Delia Brown. That was in 2003. I loved it. I still love living there.
Happier are all men than the dwellers in Faerie – or the gods, for that matter…Better a life like a falling star, bright across the dark, than a deathlessness that can see naught above or beyond itself…the day draws nigh when Faerie shall fade, the Erlking himself shrink to a woodland sprite and then to nothing, and the gods go under. And the worst of it is, I cannot believe it wrong that the immortals will not live forever.
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