And in a way I have always thought that words are alive a little, for they can whisper sweet nothing's and roar dragon flame with equal efficiency.

— Lyndsay Faye

Being brave and being alone aren't the same thing.

— Lyndsay Faye

But I will be a beautiful disaster.

— Lyndsay Faye

Charles says that he does not care what sort of Jane I am so long as I am his Jane; Radar says that he does not care what sort of Jane I am so long as I am my own Jane; Sahara says that she does not care what sort of Jane I am so long as she is my Sahara. Thus, I am daily three Jane's, and so the luckiest of all.

— Lyndsay Faye

I hope that the epitaph of the human race when the world ends will be: Here perished a species which lived to tell stories. We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind. Through it all, we tell stories, and we own an uncanny knack for the task.

— Lyndsay Faye

I know formidable women, dozens of them, women who fight and who win... Noble women. Heroic ones.

— Lyndsay Faye

In retrospect, I am very nearly as sharp as I pretend to be.

— Lyndsay Faye

Knowing even as I craved permanence in New York City, that would never come to pass. The pair of us would live for as long as we could. As well could. That was all. Then we'd blow away like wishes made on dandelion heads.

— Lyndsay Faye

Look at it,' he said, gesturing. 'This window looks down upon hundreds more panes of glass, and behind those panes live thousands upon thousands of lost souls. When I feel cast down and helpless, scores of other men do as well, and when I am bitterly angry at feeling cast down and helpless, countless other people languish in concert with me. When I'm happy, it's the same. It's a bit like... I used to play chamber music. It's like a vast orchestra. And so I shan't ever be alone.

— Lyndsay Faye

More accurately, on the bed and on the table lay various pieces of what had once been a body. Holmes was leaning with his back against the wall, his countenance deathly white. "The door was open," he said incongruously. "I was passing by, and the door was open."" Holmes," I whispered in horror." The door was open," he said once more, and then buried his face in his hands.

— Lyndsay Faye