Are you expecting someone to poison you?" he said, somewhat taken aback.
"Not really. But it seems to me that if you wait around until you know you need an antidote, it's probably too late to pick one up.

A pinned butterfly holds no delight. A pinned butterfly is nothing like a butterfly at all.

If I could sum it up in 50 words, I wouldn't have needed to write a whole novel about it.

I am no poet. I do not love words for the sake of words. I love words for what they can accomplish. Similarly, I am no arithmetician. Numbers that speak only of numbers are of little interest to me.

Her eyes were dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as the polished wood of my father’s lute. They were set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop. Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips were red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips were always red, morning and night. As if minutes before you saw her, she had been eating sweet berries, or drinking heart’s blood. No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room. Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.

She taught me I should never do anything in private I did not want talked about in public, and cautioned me not to talk in my sleep.