A Quote by Melissa Marr

...Bananach sits on your throne, has declared herself Dark Queen." "She WHAT!?" Niall- or perhaps Irial-asked. — © Melissa Marr
...Bananach sits on your throne, has declared herself Dark Queen." "She WHAT!?" Niall- or perhaps Irial-asked.
Donia asked incredulously. “What were you doing?” “The day had just begun, and we were dancing,” Aislinn said. “Dancing?” Donia looked at the Summer Queen with the same disdain Keenan had once seen on her face when she looked at the Summer Girls. “Of course you were. Bananach is attacking faeries, stealing from our courts. Irial is injured. Faerie is closed. Yes, dancing is precisely what will help.
Put your puppet on the throne." said Talathain. "You may make her Queen but she won’t be Queen for long.
There was a warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant she loved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was the deepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep she dared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so, she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.
Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.
Humor is a reminder that no matter how high the throne one sits on, one sits on one's bottom.
That was a perfectly reasonable explanation," she said grumpily. "Perhaps my advisers don't lie to me." "Isn't that what you'd want?" asked Giddon. "Well, yes, but it doesn't elucidate my puzzle!" "If I may say so, Lady Queen," said Giddon, "it's not always easy to follow your conversation." "Oh, Giddon," she said, sighing. "If it's any comfort, I don't follow it either.
She imagined herself both queen and slave, dominatrix and victim. In her imagination she was making love with men of all skin colors--white, black, yellow--with homosexuals and beggars. She was anyone's, and anyone could do anything to her. She had one, two, three orgasms, one after another. She imagined everything she had never imagined before, and she gave herself to all that was most base and most pure.
Rosa Parks was an unlikely person, but she became an instrument of the people's will in that community who were tired. They said she was tired from working and perhaps she was - but she herself said later that she was spiritually tired and weary of being humiliated by being asked to move back so that a white person could occupy her seat.
The common bees will never use their sting upon the queen; if she is to be disposed of, they starve her to death, and the queen herself will sting nothing but royalty, nothing but a rival queen.
The Queen is most anxious to enlist everyone in checking this mad, wicked folly of 'Women's Rights'. It is a subject which makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself.
She sits in the driveway, freezing, for thirty-six minutes. Arguing with herself. Because she thinks she's in love with him too. And there are two ways she can be a fool in love right now. She chooses the harder one. And knocks on the door.
That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.
although she went home that night feeling happier than she had ever been in her short life, she did not confuse the golf course party with a good party, and she did not tell herself she had a pleasant time. it had been, she felt, a dumb event preceded by excellent invitations. what frankie did that was unusual was to imagine herself in control. the drinks, the clothes, the instructions, the food (there had been none), the location, everything. she asked herself: if i were in charge, how could i have done it better?
Just as the queen bee, the highest-ranking, peerless creature of her hive, is surrounded by lowly drones to please her, whereas the workers produce honey, the same way is the one who sits on the throne an equal only to himself, and no one's companion.
The measure of human character is our reaction to dark times. No one can sidestep darkness. It is the throne upon which light sits. If a soul has not known sadness and struggle, there is no chance of overcoming, no cherishing the dawn.
My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.
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