T. Greenwood

• “Grief blanketed the city like an early snow that September. Al knew that if Sally were still there, if she’d never left on that bus with Frank LaSalle, Ella might have held her a little more closely that night, clinging in the way that parents do when tragedy strikes. When there is that knock, knock on someone else’s door reminding you that all of this, every last thing is precarious, perilous. How sad it was that grief had a shelf life, he thought. It’s only fresh and raw for so long before it begins to spoil. And soon enough, it would be replaced by a newer, brighter heartache – the old one discarded and eventually forgotten. It was clear that Sally had already begun to slip from their collective memory. Women clung just a little less tightly to their children. Not every man sitting alone at a lunch counter was a possible kidnapper. And now the next monster had arrived, stalking the streets. There wasn’t enough room on the shelf for this old, tired sorrow. Maybe we can only suffer so much, Al thought; communal capacity was a shallow well.”

• “Tonight, as she studied the constellations, she thought of Sally, and wondered what happens after a star dies. Does the light just fade away? She hoped not. What she wished for, under that reliable sky, was that it was a brilliant explosion. A donation first, and then all that beautiful brightness would shatter and scatter across the heavens into so much luminous stardust.”

-Excerpts from Rust & Stardust by A. Greenwood

Stuart Turton

• "I’d assumed everything was lost, but now I perceive this isn’t the case. I can sense my memories just out of reach. They have weight and shape, like shrouded furniture in a darkened room. I’ve simply misplaced the light to see them by."

• “You doubt my intentions?” he says, prickling at my hesitation. “Of course I doubt your intentions. You wear a mask and you talk in riddles, and I don’t for a minute believe you brought me here just to solve a mystery. You’re hiding something.” “And you think stripping me of my disguise will reveal it?” he scoffs. “A face is a mask of another sort. You know that better than most."

• “I recall Bell’s conversation with the butler at the door and how afraid they both were. My hand throbs from the pain of Ravencourt’s cane as he struggled toward the library, shortly before Jim Rashton heaved a sack of stolen drugs out through the front door. I hear the light steps of Donald Davies on the marble, as he fled the house after his first meeting with the Plague Doctor, and the laughter of Edward Dance’s friends, even as he stood silent. So many memories and secrets, so many burdens. Every life has such weight. I don’t know how anybody carries even one.”

• “The Plague Doctor claimed Blackheath was meant to rehabilitate us, but bars can’t build better men and misery can only break what goodness remains. This place pinches out the hope in people, and without that hope, what use is love or compassion or kindness? Whatever the intention behind its creation, Blackheath speaks to the monster in us, and I have no intention of indulging mine any longer. It’s had free rein long enough.”

- Excerpts from The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, by Stuart Turton

Minka Kent

• "Now I know with absolute certainty that people are selfish. They lie. Cheat. Steal. Hurt. Manipulate. Keep secrets. Wear proverbial masks. Even kill. Some of us can't help but be self-serving, letting our egos and ids drive the car as we sit powerless in the passenger seat."

• "Lying on the spot has become a bit of a specialty of mine over the years. I wasn't quite thirteen when I realized how many doors would open for you if you simply told people what they wanted to hear. No one's interested in the truth. Most of us just think we are. Sonya taught me that. At the end of the day, we just want to believe whatever makes us feel good inside. Whatever makes us feel safe. Whatever lets us sleep at night. It's a fact I've always used to my advantage."

• "I don't love lying to Sam. She doesn't deserve it. She's the only person on this earth who would take a bullet for me, and that loyalty isn't lost on me. But her moral compass was going to get in the way of this entire plan, and for that reason, I couldn't have her in on it. I'm hopeful someday she'll realize I did this all for her. And for us. So we could have the future we've only ever dreamed of. So we could rest our heads at night without a care in the world."

~ Excerpts from When I Was You, by Minka Kent

Erin Morgenstern

• “It is these aficionados, these reveurs, who see the details in the bigger picture of the circus. They see the nuance of the costumes, the intricacy of the signs. They buy sugar flowers and do not eat them, wrapping them in paper instead and carefully bringing them home. They are enthusiasts, devotees. Addicts. Something about the circus stirs their souls, and they ache for it when it is absent. They seek each other out, these people of such specific like mind. They tell of how they found the circus, how those first few steps were like magic. Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars. They pontificate upon the fluffiness of the popcorn, the sweetness of the chocolate. They spent hours discussing the quality of the light, the heat of the bonfire. They sit over their drinks smiling like children and they relish being surrounded by kindred spirits, if only for an evening. When they depart, they shake hands and embrace like old friends, even if they have only just met, and as they go their separate ways they feel less alone than they had before.”

• “‘But I’m not… special,’ Bailey says. ‘Not the way they are. I’m not anyone important.’ ‘I know,’ Celia says. ‘You’re not destined or chosen. I wish I could tell you that you were if that would make it easier, but it’s not true. You’re in the right place at the right time, and you care enough to do what needs to be done. Sometimes that’s enough.’”

• “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that... there are many kinds of magic, after all.”

~ Excerpts from The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern