You have to make a cup of yourself, to receive that pouring out. You are a sword. You were always a sword. Like your mother and your daughter, too—steel spines run in the women of your family. I realize now why I never saw saints, before. The world does not crash upon their wills like waves upon a rock, or part around them like the wake of a ship. Instead they are supple, and swim through the world as silently as fishes.

Posted in bookmaggot | Comments Off on the curse of chalion, by lois mcmaster bujold

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 24th, 2015 at 11:25 am and is filed under bookmaggot. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.