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"To call that writing, madam, is an insult to quills and ink across the world."
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"This philistinism of interpretation is more rife in literature than in any other art. For decades now, literary critics have understood it to be their task to translate the elements of the poem or play or novel or story into something else. Sometimes a writer will be so uneasy before the naked power of his art that he will install within the work itself - albeit with a little shyness, a touch of the good taste of irony - the clear and explicit interpretation of it. Thomas Mann is an example of such an overcooperative author. In the case of more stubborn authors, the critic is only too happy to perform the job."
"A book is as private and consensual as sex."
"For the narrative to exist, so that it could be read and reread even if I was taken away. Stories outlive their writers all the time. We know plenty about Goethe and Charles Dickens from what they chose to tell, even though they have been dead for years."
"I haven't stuck to any formula. Most great writers stick to the same style, but I wanted to be more various."
"I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature."
"I suppose all fictional characters, especially in adventure or heroic fiction, at the end of the day are our dreams about ourselves. And sometimes they can be really revealing."
"When you think about the period in which Agatha Christie's crime novels were written, they are actually quite edgy for the time."
"Good characters in fiction are the very devil. Not only because most authors have too little material to make them of, but because we as readers have a strong subconscious wish to find them incredible."
"Literature, the most seductive, the most deceiving, the most dangerous of professions."
Explore more quotes by Julia Quinn
"He'd mesmerized her, held her soul captive. And she couldn't move."Unless you want more than a dream, he said.She did."Will you stay? he whispered. "Or will you go?She stayed. Heaven help her, she stayed.And Michael showed her just how romantic a library could be."
"Music was not so very different from mathematics. It was all just patterns and sequences. The only difference was that they hung in the air instead of on a piece of paper. Dancing was a grand equation. One side was sound, the other movement. The dancer's job was to make them equal."
"Sebastian got up and walked to the window, resting his forehead against the pane. It was cold outside, and the icy chill pressed up against him through the glass. He liked the sensation. It was big. Grand. The sort of vivid moment that reminded him of his humanity. He was cold, therefore he must be alive. He was cold, therefore he must not be invincible. He was cold, thereforeHe stood back and let out a disgusted snort. He was cold, therefore he was cold. There wasn't really much more to it."
"Would you care to dance? he blurted. "Now? She smiled adorably. "Is there music? There wasn't. It was some testament to how foolish in love he'd become that he did not even feel embarrassed."
"If he was planning to attack and ravish, he gave no indication of being in a hurry to do so."
"Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair,and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married."Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested-tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs-fell over.Colin Bridgerton started to choke.Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.It narrowly missed Anthony's ear."
"James started to laugh. His chin hurt where she'd smacked him twice, his foot throbbed where she'd stepped on it, and his entire body felt as if he'd swum through a rosebush, which wasn't as far off the truth as it sounded. Yet still he started to laugh."
"I'm not certain you'd know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant."I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere."
"You should do that more often, he said. "Laugh, I mean."I know. But that sounded sad, and she didn't want to be sad, so she added, "I don't often get to torture grown men, though."Really? he murmured. "I would think you do it all the time.She looked at him."When you walk into a room, he said softly, "the air changes."
"He closed his eyes. The insides of his eyelids were a brownish black, not at all the same as the thick purple of the night. Darkness had so many colors. It was strange, that, and perhaps a little disquieting. But--Oh!-A foot slammed into his left calf, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a woman tumbling backward.Right onto his blanket.He smiled. The gods still loved him."
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