Violets Quotes

“The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.”
― Tennessee Williams, Camino Real

“Do you think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

“You are the only person who loves me in the world," said Elizabeth. "When you talk to me I smell violets.”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars

“Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“From the corner of her eye, the wildflowers along the wall caught her attention. “Roar, wait!”
Roar turned around. “Yes?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Aria ran to the wall, scanning the flowers. She found the right one and plucked it. She drew in its scent and imagined Perry walking beside her, his bow across his back, looking over with his lopsided grin.
She brought the flower to Roar. “I changed my mind,” she said. “Give him this.”
Roar’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “I thought you liked roses. What’s this?”
“A violet.” ”
― Veronica Rossi, Under the Never Sky

“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.

At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.

“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above. “Courage and love.”

She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems, collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her…”
― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View

“Even if fall she must, it was to lie on the earth and moulder sweetly into the roots of violets.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Lady in the Looking Glass

“My breathe would catch at the sight of violets-so common in the woods at home, so surprising in the mountains. The violet's message was "Keep up your courage, stay true to what you believe in." p264”
― Jessica Stern, Denial: A Memoir of Terror

“They're wood violets," she said. "I haven't seen them on the island since...."
"They're very rare," Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. "You can't plant them, for they won't grow. They have to choose you."
Bee's eyes met Henry's, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. "Evelyn has a theory about these flowers," she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. "Yes," she said, the memory in plain view. "She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“…”The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy. “There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue — vases and jugs — and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”…”
― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View

“I knew you were too fine for me."
"No," she protested. "I'm not a highborn lady, I'm a commoner."
"There's nothing common about you." Ethan began to play with her hair, sifting his fingers through it, lifting a lock to brush the ends against his lips and cheeks. "Do you want to know why I gave you violets? They're beautiful and small, but tough enough to grow in the cracks of city pavement. More than once, I've been in some dark place and seen them clustered near a broken stoop, or at the base of a brick wall, bright as jewels. Even without sunlight or good soil, they show up to do a flower's job.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Hello Stranger

“Thank you for the improvements you made... the lock and hinges... and the lion's-head knocker. I like it very much."
Ethan's voice was soft. "Did you like the violets?"
She hesitated before shaking her head.
"No?" he asked, more softly still. "Why not?"
"They reminded me that I might never see you again."
"After tonight, you probably won't."
"You say that every time we meet. However, you keep popping up like a jack-in-the-box, which has made me increasingly skeptical." Garrett paused before adding in an abashed tone, "And hopeful."
His gaze caressed her face. "Garrett Gibson... as long as I'm on this earth, I'll want to be wherever you are."
She couldn't help smiling ruefully. "You're the only one who does. I've been in a foul mood for the past two weeks. I've offended nearly everyone I know, and frightened off one or two of my patients."
His voice was dark velvet. "You needed me there to sweeten your temper."
Garrett couldn't bring herself to look at him as she admitted huskily, "Yes.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Hello Stranger

“On a nightstand in a teenager’s room, a glass vase filled with violets leans precariously against a wall. The only thing saving the vase from a thousand-piece death on the hardwood floor is the groove in the nightstand’s surface that catches the bottom of vase, and of course the wall itself. The violets, nearly a week old, droop in the light of a waning gibbous moon. Wrinkled petals are already piling up on the floor between the nightstand and the wall, and a girl only six days sixteen stares at the dying bouquet from her bed.”
― Jay Nichols, Emily Smiles for April

“As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colors were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of 'creme de violette,' the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.
In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Careme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.
Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.”
― Laura Madeleine, The Confectioner's Tale

“They were interrupted as a young girl walked along the pavement in front of the sessions house, calling, "Flowers! Fresh-cut flowers!" She stopped in front of them. "Posy for the lady, sir?"
Ransom turned to the girl, who wore a colorful scarf over her long dark hair and a patchwork apron over her black dress. She carried a flat basket filled with posyes, their stems wrapped with bits of colored ribbon.
"There's no need-" Garrett began, but Ransom ignored her, browsing over the tiny bouquets of roses, narcissus, violets, forget-me-nots, and dianthus.
"How much?" he asked the flower girl.
"A farthing, sir."
He glanced at Garrett over his shoulder. "Do you like violets?"
"I do," she said hesitantly.
Ransom gave the flower-girl a sixpence and picked out one of the posyes.
"Thank you, sir!" The girl scurried away as if fearing he might change his mind.
Ransom turned to Garrett with the cluster of purple blossoms. Reaching for the lapel of her walking jacket, he deftly tucked the ribbon-wrapped stem of the posy into a buttonhole.
"Violets make an excellent blood-purifying tonic," Garrett said awkwardly, feeling the need to fill the silence. "And they're good for treating cough or fever."
The elusive dimple appeared in his cheek. "They're also becoming to green-eyed women.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Hello Stranger

“Maybe violets don't have thorns like roses, or heavy fragrances like lilies or magnolias, but they are just as strong.”
― Victoria Benton Frank, My Magnolia Summer

“On a typical night at the Pudding, I might order an appetizer of shrimp rolled in brown-butter bread crumbs on skewers, so the oil wouldn't spread on your hands. For an entree: squab with black lentils and bacon, only in the pink light of the dining room the lentils weren't black, but blue--- a deep, inky blue. And for dessert, I might ask for my favorite treat: candied violets on a lace doily. My teeth cracked open each crystalline blossom, and I could smell the sheets of wax paper they came in mingled with the sugar.”
― Charlotte Silver, Charlotte Au Chocolat: Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood

“The Town and Country Market was just a half mile from Bee's home. I used to walk there as a girl, with my sister or my cousins, or sometimes all by myself, picking purple clover flowers along the way until I had a big round bunch, which, when pressed up to your nose, smelled exactly of honey. Before the walk, we'd always beg the adults for twenty-five cents and return with pockets full of pink Bazooka bubble gum. If summer had a flavor, it was pink bubble gum.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“We'd hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped, pointing to the garden to our right.
"Henry!" she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored flowers, with dark purple centers.
Bee looked astonished. "How did they... where did they come from?"
Henry shook his head. "I noticed them two weeks ago. They just appeared."
Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face, she offered an explanation. "They're wood violets," she said. "I haven't seen them on the island since..."
"They're very rare," Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. "You can't plant them, for they won't grow. They have to choose you."
Bee's eyes met Henry's, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. "Evelyn has a theory about these flowers," she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. "Yes," she said, the memory in plain view. "She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.
It's ridiculous, isn't it, Henry, to think that violets can know," Bee continued.
Henry nodded. "Harebrained," he said in agreement.
Bee shook her head in disbelief. "And to see them in bloom, in March of all months..."
Henry nodded. "I know."
Neither took their eyes off the petals before them, so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Wood violets? I hadn't seen them since I was a girl, when they appeared one summer in my grandmother's garden. I'd never noticed them on Elliot's property. What were they doing here?
Many on the island, me included, believed that these flowers had mystical powers, that they could heal wounds of the heart and the body, mend rifts in friendships, even bring about good fortune.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Roses are red, violets are blue, try to kiss me and I will actually kill you.”
― Jane Washington, Plier

“in its velvet keep
Earth holds you; on your forehead violets weep.”
― Renée Vivien, The Muse of the Violets: Poems