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“Its substance was known to me. The crawling infinity of colours, the chaos of textures that went into each strand of that eternally complex tapestry…each one resonated under the step of the dancing mad god, vibrating and sending little echoes of bravery, or hunger, or architecture, or argument, or cabbage or murder or concrete across the aether. The weft of starlingsâ€� motivations connected to the thick, sticky strand of a young thief’s laugh. The fibres stretched taut and glued themselves solidly to a third line, its silk made from the angles of seven flying buttresses to a cathedral roof. The plait disappeared into the enormity of possible spaces.

Every intention, interaction, motivation, every colour, every body, every action and reaction, every piece of physical reality and the thoughts that it engendered, every connection made, every nuanced moment of history and potentiality, every toothache and flagstone, every emotion and birth and banknote, every possible thing ever is woven into that limitless, sprawling web.

It is without beginning or end. It is complex to a degree that humbles the mind. It is a work of such beauty that my soul wept...

..I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad god.”
― China Miéville, Perdido Street Station

“One suicidal, reckless way.

I did not want to die.

I did not want to be eaten.

I did not want to go into that sweet darkness.

The Weaver rose from her little stool.

And I knew my borrowed time had run out.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“A large main room, with a small, shut door in the back. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with bric-a-brac; books, shells, dolls, herbs, pottery, shoes, crystals, more books, jewels... From the ceiling and wood rafters hung all manner of chains, dead birds, dresses, ribbons, gnarled bits of wood, strands of pearls...

A junk shop- of some immortal horder.

And that hoarder...

In the gloom of the cottage, there sat a large spinning wheel, cracked and dulled with age.

And before that ancient spinning wheel, her back to me, sat the Weaver.

Her thick hair was of richest onyx, tumbling down to her slender waist as she worked the wheel, snow-white hands feeding and pulling the thread around a thorn-sharp spindle.

She looked young- her grey gown simple but elegant, sparkling faintly in the dim forest light through the windows as she sang in a voice of glittering gold.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“Above her young, supple body, beneath her black, beautiful hair, her skin was grey- wrinkled and sagging and dry. And where eyes should have gleamed instead lay rotting black pins. Her lips had withered to nothing but deep, dark lines around a hole full of jagged stumps of teeth- like she had gnawed on too many bones.

And I knew she would be gnawing on my bones soon if I did not get out.

Her nose- perhaps once pert and pretty, now half-caved in- flared as she sniffed in my direction.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“The Weaver's dress rustled as she crept closer in the gloom. 'Who did you bring, little wolf? What did you bring to me?'

Ianthe and her two guards stepped over the threshold. Then another step. Past the open door. They didn't see me in the shadows behind it.

'Dinner,' I said to the Weaver, whirling around the door- to its outside face. And let go of the handle.

Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room.

Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old- starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her.

I was already hurtling for the trees when the guards and Ianthe began screaming.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Wings and Ruin