The Girl Who Drank the Moon (Winner of the 2017 Newbery Medal)

Everything you see is in the process of making or unmaking or dying or living. Everything is in a state of change.”

How many feelings can one heart hold? She looked at her grandmother. At her mother. At the man protecting his family. Infinite, Luna thought. The way the universe is infinite. It is light and dark and endless motion; it is space and time, and space within space, and time within time. And she knew: there is no limit to what the heart can carry.

A story can tell the truth, she knew, but a story can also lie. Stories can bend and twist and obfuscate. Controlling stories is power indeed.

When Luna was little, her grandmother taught her about magnets and compasses. She showed her that a magnet operates within a field, increasing in strength the closer one comes to its poles. Luna learned that a magnet will attract some things and ignore others. But she learned that the world is a magnet as well, and that a compass, with its tiny needle in a pool of water, will always wish to align itself with the pull of the magnetic earth. And Luna knew this and understood it, but now she felt that there was another magnetic field and another compass that her grandmother had never told her about.

Luna’s heart was pulled to her grandmother’s heart. Was love a compass?

Luna’s mind was pulled to her grandmother’s mind. Was knowledge a magnet?

Ideas, after all, are dangerous.

We are both lying to each other, she thought, a great needle piercing her heart. And neither of us knows how to stop. She set her note on the plank table and quietly closed the door.

“Just because you don’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Some of the most wonderful things in the world are invisible. Trusting in invisible things makes them more powerful and wondrous.

A man might drop a coin on the ground and never find it again, but a crow will find it in a flash. Knowledge, in its essence, was a glittering jewel—and the madwoman was a crow.

“The Poet tells us that impatience belongs to small things—fleas, tadpoles, and fruit flies. You, my love, are ever so much more than a fruit fly.”

“ ‘Patience has no wing,’ ” Glerk recited as she walked.

“ ‘Patience does not run

Nor blow, nor skitter, nor falter.

Patience is the swell of the ocean;

Patience is the sigh of the mountain;

Patience is the shirr of the Bog;

Patience is the chorus of stars,

Infinitely singing.’ ”