Dark Academia Quotes

“I Am the City

The spaces between streets,
The lights that bloom on corners,
The lines that hold us together.

I may be a name,
I may be a crossroad,
I may be a saint.

I am a city.
I am a name.
I am.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“You know that I am one of the foremost living experts on the ways of the Folk," I said. I was not worried about bragging, for this was a simple statement of fact.
"That is the problem," Lilja replied. "Yes, I know that you know the Folk, but there is a difference between knowing and feeling. Those of us who live among them would never trust the tall ones. For all you have read about and studied the Folk, you have never truly lived with them, dear. They are like--- like nature. Can you understand the feeling of a winter night, or a spring wind, if you have only read about it?"
This was an uncomfortable echo of something Farris had said to me once. I pursed my lips and replied, "All right. Let us accept for the sake of argument that you possess a truer understanding of the Folk than I, that books and academic knowledge are secondary to lived experience. What then would you have me fear?"
She hesitated. "Power," she said at last. "In our stories, it is the great ones--- the lords and ladies, the monarchs and generals, that one must avoid above all else. They are the true monsters lurking in the night."
This again! I thought. Aloud I said, "I have heard a similar opinion recently from another friend of mine, who seems to think Wendell will abandon me to die of exposure or some such, I suppose when he becomes tired of me."
"Oh, no!" Lilja said. "That is not what I meant--- I don't believe for a second that Wendell would harm you. But I worry there will come a day when you no longer recognize him. And what hurt is worse than that?”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“A HOTEL ROOM IN PARIS #31

At the bottom of the lonely window,
The sky looks almost velvety lilac.

While at the top, the window frame
Seems to drown in front of an ocean of blue satin.

White window frames in uneven walls
Cast no shadow, so the light projects the soul of each traveller instead.

So I sit here in silence, filtering out the noise
That the boulevards inhabit and sing each day.

Only the music I keep in my room, the silent solitude each one carries;
Carries far and – may I hope – home soon.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“White blossoms on cold sheets;
Roses outside the garden's wall.

Falling feels easier than growing
Once you've reached each peak.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“What speaks slowly becomes bold.
What begins as a letter becomes a book.

Whoever crosses a line is a poet.
Whoever is a poet becomes a revolt.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Paris

The Seine dresses in light black,
Mimicking the dark grey of the sky,

And so, I drown my ink into it.
Each poem becomes art,

Reflecting and dancing
Around my hands with care.

The notes the river shares
Become a painting that inspires
All the great artists housed in its museums.

Still, I vow and pray by its sight —
Yet I dare not claim to be an artist
As great as the one in sight.

In Paris.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Parisian Endings

Endings share a bond between right and wrong,
Upon every poet who dares to cross a line.

The Parisian sky glows light with blue and orange,
Each hill a line of fortune, unique to every soul.

Words cross the heart I call cœur,
And dawn in the same eternal hues behind her.

By noon, I become the city itself,
Only to return as her passenger,
By walking far enough to lose her.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“A Line Across the Seine

Whatever I made of you
Surrenders to beauty.

For I am a simple line
That crosses the Seine,

Remembering each wave
Upon the stones of light.

However often the light shines
Towards the blue of morning skies,

I’ll be here.
I’ll write.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The City That Holds Me

The sidewalks I stumble on more than once
Make me feel like I am walking home.
The place cold enough to die for,

Yet I walk towards the next day without freezing.
The river that drowns my words,
As I wander its same stretch, up and down.

My chapels know my favourite corners,
Where I light my candles each good Sunday.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Pothole in the Sky

My veins ground too deep to become a statue,
And the flight is delayed too late—
So I take off again.

I take off without the vein of the city
That lifts me to heaven with a million lights
And a few streets in between.

The darkness blooms like a desert,
And in my aeroplane, I become a small flower,
Travelling too far and without sight.

Clouds outside windows become a stair frame,
And the dark blue of mornings drifts by,
While I dream of Paris and every thought

That drifted by.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Killing is why I exist," she said finally. "It is my only love. I used to struggle with my temper, but now I embrace it. You cannot fathom how many I have slain, both mortal and Folk. Why should a little nothing like you be the end of me?"
"You know why," I said. "Because it would be a fitting conclusion."
She gave me the sort of look that reminded me of Razkarden when he sizes up a potential meal. The shadow in the room seemed to deepen, redden, and grow damp, a slippery damp I felt through my shoes. I only waited. "Well?" I said.
She seemed to deflate slightly, and the illusion vanished. "You wish to find the door to Death?" she said, a slyness entering her voice. "Very well. I will tell you how. But I must be allowed to depart this realm unharmed."
I could see she expected me to protest or bargain with her. "Done," I said.
Her lip curled. "Such a dull little thing," she said. "You have no spirit worth breaking, I see. You are not like your grandfather at all."
"And you are not as frightening as you think you are," I said.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The Weight of Falling Leaves

Winter swept onto my doorstep quite easily,
Like it overtook every part of my heart,
The moment you left my autumn to fall.

So I kept things as you left them – frozen,
Showing no sign of any emotion or feeling,
Like the leaves that wither and die in the ice.

Never fulfilling the purpose for which they fell,
Yet crumbling under shoes heavier than the burden
The tree gave them by letting them go.

They long to be carried away by the wind or the elements,
Not trapped forever in this frozen expanse of white,
Beneath starry skies that gaze upon each December night.

I can no longer bear to look upon them,
So I set them free with a kiss to keep;
Filled with the fire of your lips, finally redeemed –
See how they gleam with beauty, long before spring.”
― Laura Chouette

“Whatever I take from you,
Trust me, it is not enough
To build me back up.

I stare into walls you build
For hours on end,
Just to reflect myself in cracks.

A home built without love.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Poem with Adjustments

And I write out of worry,
I write out of fear,
I write for writing's sake,
And I drown in between these motives.

I become a poet,
I become a lover,
I become a human,

And still, I seek to become a writer.

I become still in the seeking.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The collar sleeve I hold up to wish you farewell

The scars on each shirt that share a needle
Becomes a sea of white in between stitches.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“A Laptop in One Room

The corners I turned became a city,
While remembering the sidewalks.

Each street I crossed turned into art,
For poets past than turned lines upside down.

Horizons in blue and grey
Became a shallow water's sight.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Tears Above a Keyboard

The words you built inside a mind
One day destroyed you.

You became a single tear
Without the memory.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“My Lines

My lines cross tragedy,
Hope, and love;

A mere poetry of life
Keeps anyone alive.

I may wander along,
Yet I’ll be a part of it—

Life—I seek.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“All The Ink I Wasted

All the ink I wasted
Climbing up ivory pages and cursive titles
Of whoever asked to buy and sell -
Words and souls and hope and pain.

All the nights I spent
Crying out to the world what I thought
Or blaming myself for not hearing back -
Worlds are crashing inside myself.

All the fights I fought
Calming my strife to succeed and feel
Overwhelming hopes and dreams in spare -
Wondering if I write my fate or dare to seal.

All the wasted words
Counting each number up I tried to spell
Only to be reminded of despair once again -
Worth is nothing nowadays with a price to sell.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“What Other Can a Man Lay but Tragedy?

What other can a man lay but tragedy?
No other thing would be ripe in time.

Grief is a flower that blooms often,
And sorrow is the rain that waters it sometimes.

Each man reaps what he once sows—
With pain, and some with bitter ease.

The sky above every head of gloom
Grows thicker with clouds and earthly deeds.

The field does not bloom in summer
But on the last day of every man's each.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The Ghosts We Leave Behind

When I meet you again,
I will walk past you;
Leaving the ghost behind
That haunted me for years.

I will walk fast and steady,
Not looking back.
May I think about today
Or tomorrow? — Nobody knows.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“I Will Go Back to Paris in Spring

I will go back to Paris in spring,
To see its life and not the still,
To watch the sky in a different hue,
With the same buildings at each rue.

I will walk and pass the same things by,
And wonder again with a sigh.
Till winter comes, it will be long,
Yet I wonder when I will come back along.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“We Haunt the People We Love

We haunt the people that we love,
And we become ruins by doing so.
Chasing them down every line,
No matter if spoken or lived by it.

Running in circles, remembering them,
While watching ourselves turn into others' ghosts.
We haunt and live—
And we will outlive.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The Weight of Perception

I destroy myself by thinking about what I’m not;
And they who love me destroy themselves by thinking that I am.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The Tragedy of the Ordinary

The ordinariness is tragic—
Not because it happens all over again,
But when it doesn’t, it hurts every day.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Wasted Chances
I think life offers many chances,
And we waste most of them by never taking them—
(Just like untouched glasses of champagne.)”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Unmoored

I set myself abound,
Like a new ship standing against the ocean;
The waves set free
By land of long imprisonment—
Alone.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Ireland

The land is scarred
by hills and roads of foreign.
Ways lead to false capitals
and answered calls of long-ago wars.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“The Might of Me

I won’t write about
how I saved myself after you left—
The truth is
you never really stayed,
so I had nothing to save
but the might of me
and the could have beens
in every sentence since then.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“Xaroth rubbed his snout as smoke flew out his nostrils. “Let me tell you this, Moonberry.” He intoned, in a voice that made my blood run cold. “The path I tread is one paved with the bones of those who dared defy me. Each scar on my scales is a testament to the countless souls who have fallen before me, crushed under the weight of my wrath.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing into slits, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You may see me as a tyrant, a creature of unrelenting pride, but know this: my actions are driven by a relentless pursuit of power. They are the manifestations of a soul that revels in the destruction and despair I leave in my wake.”
Xaroth leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, each word laced with malice. “I have watched kingdoms burn, their glories turned to ashes. I have seen comrades, bound by honor and duty, fall in the heat of battle, their dying screams a symphony to my ears. The thrill of victory is a heady intoxication, one that fuels the darkness within me.”
― Tiano Mattherson, Mydnight: Knytehood