Best 1 170 of Novel quotes - MyQuotes
Who would have imagined" he said, "when you were sentenced to life in the Metropol all those years ago, that you had just become the luckiest man in all of Russia.
And they...LIVED! Life isn't always ‘Happily Ever After’, rather, loving FOREVER, regardless.
The novel remains a very special form for me.
Cinta itu membutuhkan hati untuk mengingat, bukan pikiran
Ford Madox Ford
Ford's last Fifth Queen novel is amazing. The whole cycle is a noble conception.
Hope can be foolish or misguided, but there was no such thing as false hope. Hope was always true even when there was no evidence to support its claim.” - Liam
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Why did people ask "What is it about?" as if a novel had to be about only one thing.
... isn't breaking a supervillian out of jail a little ... much?
We live in a world where there is such a clear definition of what a girl should be that it takes almost no effort at all to completely hate ourselves.
No novel is a clone of any preceding one, though with a background cast of characters and things that has grown to thousands, there are many familiar aspects.
The heavens are too immense, too beautiful and varied, to fit into the mind of any one deity; the murmured creeds of fathers and sons are no match for the astronomer’s gasp.
Watergate is an immensely complicated scandal with a cast of characters as varied as a Tolstoy novel.
All he desired was to have a traumatic experience once in his life. Leukemia did not discriminate.
Calvin W. Allison
The people inside were in intense worship; it seemed to Sarah like they were in another world or something. The pleasantness in the atmosphere drew her in. She felt welcomed, even though she had not been invited; noticed, even though she had not been seen; loved, even though she wasn’t known; and even though it didn’t make sense to her—it didn’t have to.
No wonder you want to be a writer. How can you not, with all that behind you? You practically are a novel already.
I set out to write a screenplay but, since my early 20s, had dreamed of writing a novel.
You write your first novel with the desperation of the damned. You're afraid that you'll never write anything else, ever again.
The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.
When he told F. of his disgust at the eyelid's movement, he must have been sixteen. When he decided to study medicine, he must have been nineteen; by then, having already signed on to the contract to forget, he no longer remembered what he had said to F. three years before. Too bad for him. The memory might have alerted him, might have helped him see that his choice of medicine was wholly theoretical, made without the slightest self- knowledge. Thus he studied medicine for three years before giving up with a sense of shipwreck. What to choose after those lost years? What to attach to, if his inner self should keep as silent as it had before? He walked down the broad outside staircase of the medical school for the last time, with the feeling that he was about to find himself alone on a platform all the trains had left.
Soy tan feliz, que a veces paréceme que vivo suspendida en el aire, que mis pies no tocan la tierra, que huelo la eternidad y respiro el airecillo que sopla más allá del sol. No duermo. ¡Ni qué falta me hace dormir!
I prefer short stories, but publishers would, of course, rather that writers produce novels, since novels are still more commercially viable.
If you haven't written a novel by the time you're forty you never will!
Henry Miller wrote novels, but he calls his protagonist Henry, often Henry Miller, and his books are in this gray area between memoir and novel.
I turned to the Partition experiences, which were churning in my mind. Then came my first novel Train to Pakistan.
Dude, don’t die out here.
I am almost six-novels-old. It took me until the third novel to call myself a writer.
I get very weird and defensive about what I'm working on - I wouldn't even tell my secretary what the next page of my novel was about.
In the city, human beings celebrated and enjoyed material conditions and comforts, but were caught in the labyrinths and knots of spiritual shallowness and psychological confusion. In the city human beings wrestled with the demands of survival and profit but fled from life’s imperatives of honesty and moderation. In the city man was afraid to confront his own face.
I would like to do a novel where some curse turns that into how the world really is - a blessing or a curse, I don't know which.
I've always wanted to write a novel. It's overwhelming and daunting, and it's one of those things that every writer fantasizes about doing.
Sometimes, I can’t separate the reality from dream or illusion. Sometimes, I get so tired thinking about what if I’m not really here and all the good things happened in my life were just a mirage.” “I guess you feel it when you reach some sort of pleasure?” “True. I’m suffering from the fear of losing happiness. The fear that the moments of joy to be taken away from me and be replaced by a tragedy” “Cherophobia. That’s what it’s called.” She glanced at my face “Yeah. That’s what the shrink said” “I’ll cure your fear” “How?” “By eternal life
Alive, and one. We are one, and while we love, death will never touch us. 'The grave's a fine and private place/ but none, I think, do there embrace.
A couple hours went by, and the storm began to turn back to the sea. The dark clouds rolled away, leaving white, fluffy ones in their place. We were safe, and the rock in the distance was still there. We stepped out of the car and walked over to the rock, noticing the families of seals were back again. The seals were strong and ready to make it through any storm that would fall their way. My parents’ love was still there; that is what love means. I envy that love, and I hoped to find it someday... and I did.
This scene expresses the basic situation of immaturity; lyricism is an attempt to face that situation: the individual expelled from the protected enclosure of childhood wishes to enter the world, but at the same time, because he is frightened of it, he fashions an artificial replacement world out of his own verse. He makes his poems revolve around him like the planets around the sun; he becomes the center of a small universe in which nothing is alien, in which he feels as much at home as a child inside its mother, for everything here is fashioned only from the substance of his soul. Here he can accomplish everything that is so difficult "outside;" here he can, like the student Wolker, march with a proletarian crowd to make a revolution and, like the virginal Rimbaud, lash his "little girlfriends" because that crowd and those girlfriends are not fashioned out of the hostile substance of an alien world but out of the substance of his own dreams, and they are thus he himself and do not shatter the unity of the universe he has constructed for himself.
Before I write a novel, images float around in my head that work like icons - they are meaningless in themselves, but serve as reminders.
Whatever’s eating at you, let it go. Emotion leads to poor decisions. Poor decisions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny is our greatest threat.” The Barn
The miraculous power of love has often been underestimated just like we underestimate the power of sleep. Most of the herculean tasks performed by men were possible because they had been deeply in love and had slept well the night before.
I have only men like you n novels, men who lived their own idiosyncrasies.
The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?
About some books we feel that our reluctance to return to them is the true measure of our admiration. It is hard to suppose that many people go back, from a spontaneous desire, to reread 1984: there is neither reason nor need to, no one forgets it. The usual distinctions between forgotten details and a vivid general impression mean nothing here, for the book is written out of one passionate breath, each word is bent to a severe discipline of meaning, everything is stripped to the bareness of terror. Kafka's The Trial is also a book of terror, but it is a paradigm and to some extent a puzzle, so that one may lose oneself in the rhythm of the paradigm and play with the parts of the puzzle. Kafka's novel persuades us that life is inescapably hazardous and problematic, but the very 'universality' of this idea helps soften its impact: to apprehend the terrible on the plane of metaphysics is to lend it an almost soothing aura.
Read my book and you shall know thee
All great novels, all true novels, are bisexual.
The Archer novels are about various kinds of brokenness.
Couldn't I try...Naturally, it wouldn't be a question of a tune...But couldn't I in another medium?...It would have to be a book: I don't know how to do anything else. But not a history book: history talks about what has existed - an existent can never justify the existence of another existent. My mistake was to try to resuscitate Monsieur de Rollebon. Another kind of book. I don't quite know which kind - but you would have to guess, behind the printed words, behind the pages, something which didn't exist, which was above existence. The sort of story, for example, which could never happen, an adventure. It would have to be beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence. I am going, I feel irresolute. I dare not make a decision. If I were sure that I had talent...but I have never, never written anything of that sort; historical articles, yes - if you could call them that. A book. A novel. And there would be people who would read this novel and who would say: 'It was Antoine Roquentin who wrote it, he was a red-headed fellow who hung about in cafés', and they would think that about my life as I think about the life of the Negress: as about something precious and almost legendary. A book. Naturally, at first it would only be a tedious, tiring job, it wouldn't prevent me from existing or from feeling that I exist. But a time would have to come when the book would be written, would be behind me, and I think that a little of its light would fall over my past. Then, through it, I might be able to recall my life without repugnance. Perhaps one day, thinking about this very moment, about this dismal moment at which I am waiting, round-shouldered, for it to be time to get on the train, perhaps I might feel my heart beat faster and say to myself: 'It was on that day, at that moment that it all started.' And I might succeed - in the past, simply in the past - in accepting myself.
Aku tak ragu mengatakan, bersama denganmu walaupun sebatas embusan angin kunamai ia anugrah
Sometimes you have to let go a little bit and travel the path of least resistance but this doesn’t mean that you quit when things get tough, as you are working towards a goal! It just means that you may only be able to see a rough draft of your final destination, right now, and that it’s safe to explore along the way.
As a student in England, I studied French and English literature. I read L'Etranger and the rhythm of the novel felt familiar to me - very African.
Aspiro a no depender de nadie, ni del hombre que adoro. No quiero ser su manceba, tipo innoble, la hembra que mantienen algunos individuos para que les divierta, como un perro de caza; ni tampoco que el hombre de mis ilusiones se me convierta en marido. No veo la felicidad en el matrimonio. Quiero, para expresarlo a mi manera, estar casada conmigo misma, y ser mi propia cabeza de familia. No sabré amar por obligación; sólo en la libertad comprendo mi fe constante y mi adhesión sin límites. Protesto, me da la gana de protestar contra los hombres que se han cogido todo el mundo por suyo, y no nos han dejado a nosotras más que las veredas estrechitas por donde ellos no saben andar...
In this otherworldly moment I am profoundly grateful to be here, to be alone, to experience this thing that no one has ever experienced and that no one else ever will.
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
She lifts her eyes, and there is Death in the corner, but not like a king with his iron crown, as the epics claimed. Why, it is a giant brush loaded with white paint. It descends upon her with gentle suddenness, obliterating the shape of the world.