And here we need to remember the lesson of the fishwife: that stigmas become attached to words that are often used by historically marginalized speakers, including in this case many speakers of African-American English and southern varieties of American English. This is part of why debates about words are so important: They are almost never just about words—they are about people and prejudice, about social and political issues, and about power.

‘She’s not sick, but there’s no life in her. I don’t know what to do.’

Removing his spectacles, as he always did when he believed that serious matters were at hand, the old man said, ‘Poor child. Reality is poisoning her blood.’

The surface of love was a feeling, but beyond this thin layer, there was a fathomless, winding maze of caverns offering many paces to see and explore.

I used to think that the Order as a society was broken, but watching you navigate it, knowing what they’ve done to you because of it, being away from it myself, showed me that it’s not broken. It’s working exactly as designed. A wheel, drenched in hate and control, churning.

Reader, I nearly fled. Cold iron holds no power over my kind, but we are quite repulsed by dull people.

Your records show exceptional intelligence and mediocre results. It’s a comfortable place, mediocrity. Never pushing oneself to the limits to see what you can take. Never staring down your fears, never reaching into yourself to find that last bit of courage.

Whatever he says, whatever he does, you need to remember that you are a brilliant, amazing person. You bend over backwards to please that man, and if he doesn't appreciate you, if he doesn't realize how special you are, then you just have to do whatever you need to do to protect your heart.

She came to us as any apocalypse does: slowly at first, and then all at once.

“Pain isn’t a competition,” I assure him. “There’s always enough to go around.”

And what was a home but somewhere you wouldn’t have to feel quite so alone.

ts voice was like the wind, but also like a thousand trees thinking the same thought.

Perhaps being too powerful, too unopposed, is a curse in and of itself, leading to boredom and dissipation, and the invention of imaginary enemies whose powers to torment were less limited than those of flesh and blood.

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Animals began telling stories of Silver Nose’s nightly journeys and his signal fires. It did not take long for others to start calling him Flame Fox. A being who was black as night during the day and who set fires on fells as the rest of the world was fast asleep.

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that came down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.