It’s beautiful, she’s been told. A place where trees grow up and out in logarithmic spirals, ringed by leaves that remain forever green. Crowned with clusters of fruit, sweet and succulent and rich, from which all taste thereafter is only but an echo of. Nestled with seeds slumbering in the fertile ground, of which galaxies, planets, suns, worlds will grow from. Populated with flowers who unfurl their hands to open up their hearts, revealing sleeping stars resting in their nurseries.
It is the garden of creation, the garden everlasting.
When a sword is placed onto Uriel’s hands, when she is stationed to guard the closed and locked gate, she knows she will never see it.
Good luck, sister, Michael murmurs as he kisses her brow. Uriel watches him march back to war, his wings heavy with grief and stained with the blood of their brothers.
It’s not right, she wants to say, for Michael has only ever known how to love.
But it’s not her place, so Uriel says nothing at all.
Douglas Adams is the best when it comes to describe characters
they need to teach classes on Douglas Adams analogies okay
“He leant tensely against the corridor wall and frowned like a man trying to unbend a corkscrew by telekinesis.”
“Stones, then rocks, then boulders which pranced past him like clumsy puppies, only much, much bigger, much, much harder and heavier, and almost infinitely more likely to kill you if they fell on you.”
“He gazed keenly into the distance and looked as if he would quite like the wind to blow his hair back dramatically at that point, but the wind was busy fooling around with some leaves a little way off.”
“It looked only partly like a spaceship with guidance fins, rocket engines and escape hatches and so on, and a great deal like a small upended Italian bistro.”
“If it was an emotion, it was a totally emotionless one. It was hatred, implacable hatred. It was cold, not like ice is cold, but like a wall is cold. It was impersonal, not as a randomly flung fist in a crowd is impersonal, but like a computer-issued parking summons is impersonal. And it was deadly – again, not like a bullet or a knife is deadly, but like a brick wall across a motorway is deadly.”
And, of course:
“The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t.”
the one that will always stay with me is “Arthur Dent was grappling with his consciousness the way one grapples with a lost bar of soap in the bath,” i feel like that was the first time i really understood what you could do with words.
I will reblog this every time I see it because these are some of my favorite sentences in the English language.
Ink Child Writing 