In the House in the Dark of the Woods

I said to my father that I did not believe you could die of a laugh and he looked over at me and said, “Poor daughter, you can die of nearly anything.”

for there are things in this world that you think will never come to pass that will rob you of your voice for nothing but the joy of them when suddenly they do

It is one of the oddest things about the world, that it wants constantly to drop something onto you, some small reminder of itself, branch or stone or seed or dust.

“Oh, it’s a merry thing, this heart of yours,” she said. “It’s like a drink in a small glass on the deck of a storm-tossed ship or a shout in a fiery room.”

A tale is a funny thing, and even when it’s your own and you have a quill in your hand you must be careful where you touch it.

My father had worked at teaching me my letters for a time when I was a girl but when my eyes had begun drifting over signs on stores and peddlers’ carts my mother had said next I’d be writing letters to the Devil and put a stop to it.

Men who beat their women were as common as hard crust on comfort jars, she said, but women who beat their men were as rare as rubies in the wilderness and must be treasured.

I thought I saw eyes off in the darkness, eyes open at the very minute of their own ending, but how could this have been, for there was almost no light in the woods, just the smallest sliver of a moon?

There are fears in the airs and on the earth that can call up a fire in your heart whose ash will blacken all hope.