White Oleander Book Quotes Novels & Stories

If I dream of the White Wolf tonight, I’m going to ask her advice. I snorted. If I’d been that White Wolf, I’d have told her to stay away from Ella. I was about to close the journal when I saw the second page ended with a poem. Olivia liked to sprinkle poems into her journals. You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock,

Her uncle would be heartbroken if he was still alive to see what his grandson had become. Still, it was interesting to watch the three of them together. Delia seemed nervous and hiding it. Tina was outright nervous, though whether that was because of the current state of her rapport with Adolph or something else, Irene couldn’t tell. “Your thoughts?” Irene leaned over to speak in a whisper to Raven. “One wouldn’t typically mix crimson oleander with wolfsbane. It would be overkill…”

"The fourteenth herb she has no clue about. She wants us to provide some references to see what rare toxins exist in the world. Mr. Leon are there any books you can recommend." "Let me think. There do seem to be books that document all the toxins." They sat down together again to discuss about wolfbane. Time passed unnoticed, and it was getting dark. They were unaware of it. Danger crept in with the darkness. Princess Adele, "They lost track of time as usual, didn't they?" "Yes. Everyone has left. Now there are only two of them left in the library." "Very well. Then let's follow the plan." ***

"Yes, sorry. But how, maybe a gas leak?" "You have to think bigger. Go fly or die." "Literally." "Nerium Oleander," the both of us said at the same time. "God, I'm brilliant." We said together again. "It would be perfect. It will seem as if she mistakenly picked the poisonous flower." The other me said. "It's not an accident. She doesn't know a rat's ass about flowers." I responded. "True. But we have to be careful when handling the Nerium Oleander. One wrong move and that's it for us as well."

She could feel the roots of life intertwined beneath the surface, like ancient rivers coursing through the earth. Pedro watched her, marveling at her tranquility. “What do the trees tell you?” he asked, his voice soft, as if afraid to break the spell. Alice smiled, feeling the connection like a comforting hum beneath her feet. “They tell me their stories. Of sunlit days, of rain that gave them strength. And of waiting, of patience.” Her eyes opened, glancing at Pedro. “The trees remind me that waiting can make us stronger, even if it feels endless.”

She closed them for a long moment. "He learned it from Cedric." "Yes." "He has been doing it for twenty-one years without anyone to tell him where it came from." "Yes." She opened her eyes. She set her hand over mine on the cup. "I am going to go find Kade tomorrow. I am going to tell him." "Good, mama." "Good." The fourth night, she told me about the book. My father had a favorite book. It had been on his desk in the Ashvale household. It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting.

Oleander leaves were highly toxic, and everyone knew it. Yet as long as Roxanne liked them, Vincent could make them bloom in the Frostwell household all year. I once feared someone might eat them by mistake. I argued against planting a poisonous flower in the courtyard. Roxanne cried herself sick over it. "Does Vicky hate me so much that she will not even let you plant flowers for me, Vince?" Vincent pulled her behind him and sneered at me. "If you want to target Roxy, at least come up with a better excuse. Who would ever eat something this bitter by accident? Anyone would spit it out the moment it touched their mouth."

The envelope sealed itself again, this time with fresh wax, the symbol burning hotter, and when Olivia touched it, it whispered in her own voice, “You can’t outrun what you created.”

"Why don't you see if anything speaks to you?" I wander through the narrow aisles, breathing in the scent of old paper and ink. My fingers trail across familiar names—Plath, Oliver, Neruda—poets I used to know by heart. I pull out a slim volume of Mary Oliver's work and flip to a random page: "Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

he asked, his youthful wonder shining through. Adam, finding joy in sharing knowledge, replied, "Well, Noah, Oleander is the name of a flower. It's a pretty white flower, but here's the interesting part: it's known for being both beautiful and toxic. People have to be careful around it because even though it looks nice, it can be harmful." Noah's eyes widened with fascination as he listened intently to Adam's explanation. "Wow, like a secret flower!" he exclaimed. Adam chuckled at Noah's enthusiasm. "Exactly, buddy. You've got a unique name, just like that special flower."