Best 3503 quotes in «magic quotes» category

As a writer, I do not treat writing merely as a profession but more of as my "calling" and my way of life. In every waking hour and even in my deep sleep, creativity and imagination crawls through my inner core. Anyone can write but not everybody can capture that crystalline moment when magic unfolds and casts a spell on her readers." - Author/Poet Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo

As for her, I'd forgotten her for the moment. So I shall never understand why, suddenly, bewilderingly, I was certain that everything I had imagined to be truth was false. False. Only the magic and the dream are true—all the rest's a lie. Let it go. Here is the secret. Here.

As for whether the magic in The Crown’s Game is real, well . . . that depends. Do you believe in what you cannot see?

As he hurtled through the air Simon saw the boiling emerald fire hit his protective spell and explode into sickly green sparks, inches from where Falamir was still crouched, oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him.

As if I were the funniest, weirdest girl in the world - that's how he used to look at me.

[A]s if enjoying a last, drawn-out supper, he sips on Alexandria's shadows.

As if grabbed by strong arms that were not there, he felt himself being lifted. Raising skyward and spinning, he fought to regain orientation. The winds were holding him and carrying him higher. Spinning him sickeningly, senses askew, his focus was being lost.

As in most fairy tales, there's a prince and a princess, dragons and some magic, and the feeling it gives you that anything is possible if we could stay this way forever.

As it was, she never wanted to leave her bed because it meant seeing him when she fell asleep.

As long as we don't cut off our hearts, the inner workings of the universe illuminate before us.

As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.

A song she heard Of cold that gathers Like winter's tongue Among the shadows It rose like blackness In the sky That on volcano's Vomit rise A Stone of ruin From burn to chill Like black moonrise Her voice fell still...

As regards the artists themselves, most of them gave up their freedom quite lightly, placing their art at the service of someone or something. As a rule, their concerns and their ambitions are those of any old careerist. I thus acquired a total distrust of art and artists, whether they were officially recognised or were endeavouring to become so, and I felt that I had nothing in common with this guild. I had a point of reference which held me elsewhere, namely that magic within art which I had encountered as a child.

A spiritual reinterpretation of events gives us miraculous authority to command the winds, to part the waters, and to break all chains that bind us.

As rain began to fall, Aldric worried the old machines would not be able to survive the weather. "Hand me that oil can!" he shouted to Siomon. Magic machines need oil?" asked Simon. Of course they need oil. They're not perfect.

As soon as he stood in front of her, she folded her arms and looked cross. "You don't have any gardening skills. You turned down a prestigious job to weed the garden? "I will be rewarded richly in treasures untold." She raised a brow. "I've heard dragon-shifters pay a lot of money to merchants and the like. "Aaagh, but you are also a dragon-shifter of a sort. Yes, but I am a gardener, which means I don't go on high-risk missions to earn my gold.

As researchers of the paranormal, we must understand there are ways to change the rhythm of time within us, ways to change the beat. These ways have been known since the beginnings of civilization, and possibly much earlier. And these ways would require no more effort than simply recognizing the secret rhythms of things. Moreover, we may learn to beat with them and begin to perceive a different kind of space, and ultimately discover an altogether different conception of reality…

As they walked, a sudden rush of wind hurled low across the grass, bringing with it the scent of moving water and rocks hidden in shadows, and Blue thrilled again and again with the knowledge that magic was real, magic was real, magic was real.

A stóirín, ya are a handful of trouble, but I kind of like it.

A stubborn refusal of the conditions of 20th Century 'reality', surrealism has denied intransigently and consistently that modern man can live without a sense of wonder at the world that was once embodied in myth. In approaching literature, it has aimed at restoring to the word its magical qualities. And at giving back to language the elemental power it once had within society. This determinism lies at the heart of the surrealist attitude and distinguishes it radically from the modernism which took shape contemporaneously with it.

A strange creature stands in front of her. About three feet tall with large pointy ears and yellow eyes, it looks up at her with shrewdness. It wears a wool cap and has a long white beard that passes its pudgy belly. The beard is filled with braids, beads, and a pocket watch. She gasps, “Is that an elf?” The creature draws itself up to its full height. “An elf! You call me an elf? I am no elf, little girl! I am no faery slave! I am a goblin! Finiki the Goblin!” It turns to the copper-haired man with a scowl. “Did you hear that, Tristan? An elf! Your girl called me an elf!” Tristan runs a hand through his hair. “Leave her be, Finiki. Why don’t you go and check on Foresto – “ “The ogre?” Brie asks. He hesitates before looking down at her with slightly widened eyes, seeming surprised she knew who he was speaking of. “The ogre,” he finally confirms, then adds, “You’re a fast learner.” Trying to be subtle as to not turn his short temper onto her, she tilts her head towards the stout creature that stands in front of them. “You people have a goblin. An ogre isn’t that far-fetched.

A sudden thought shocked him to the bone. I could leave Carthak when I'm a master. I'd never have to think about the games again.

A sudden intake of breath escaped her as soon as his lips touched the backs of her fingers. His rose birthmark tingled as if awakened.

As Wendy watched them they burst into a chord of tinkling, girlish laughter. She felt a smile touch her own lips; not one of them could be under sixty.

At home I walked through a haze of belongings that knew, at least vaguely, who they belonged to. Grampar’s chair resented anyone else sitting on it as much as he did himself. Gramma’s shirts and jumpers adjusted themselves to hide her missing breast. My mother’s shoes positively vibrated with consciousness. Our toys looked out for us. There was a potato knife in the kitchen that Gramma couldn’t use. It was an ordinary enough brown-handled thing, but she’d cut herself with it once, and ever after it wanted more of her blood. If I rummaged through the kitchen drawer, I could feel it brooding. After she died, that faded. Then there were the coffee spoons, rarely used, tiny, a wedding present. They were made of silver, and they knew themselves superior to everything else and special. None of these things did anything. The coffee spoons didn’t stir the coffee without being held or anything. They didn’t have conversations with the sugar tongs about who was the most cherished. I suppose what they really did was physiological. They confirmed the past, they connected everything, they were threads in a tapestry.

a think I would not be here today without the strength given by certain friendships meet to reassemble me I look at the present at this insant and very patient of day clement an exit and always in the part and life reacts to your mind positive and creative stay magical, stay true.

At its most elemental, a spell is no more than a recipe for change.

At least he possessed enough sense to recognize how little sense he possessed.

At the end of the day…we are anchoring into the peaceful lagoon, smiling at the majestic sun and its flirting rays, slowly slipping into the glittering ballroom of immense night skies, sipping on the platinum moon liquor under the blues of rippling waves kissing my golden foot hanging over the board of gently rocking boat, and diving into the bed of galaxies whispering magical stories of their eternal lives connecting souls…till the dawn…

Aurions-Nous échoué ? Au premier jour, Nous avons décidé de sceller la magie pour créer une nouvelle ère de paix pour les Hommes. Nos pouvoirs ont, depuis lors, été emprisonnés dans de vulgaires pierres disséminées dans tout Iriah. Mais l’un d’entre Nous clame que malgré toutes nos précautions, le procédé inverse reste possible. [...] Malheur à celui qui se retrouvera possédé par cette magie…

At times all you need is a bottle of fine old wine, a mellifluous piece of music playing in the background and a good book to spend the entire night in a magical bliss!

A well told story can be magic. Let me show you...

A weathered black and silver Dodge pickup towing a small motorboat pulled up behind us, and Alex circled back to greet the driver. I couldn’t see who sat behind the crusted and dirty windshield, but Alex stood at the driver’s window and pointed down the block where the boulevard disappeared into floodwater. The truck pulled ahead, maneuvered a deft U-turn, and backed toward the water. Alex motioned for me to follow. By the time I lurched my way to the truck, he and the pickup driver were sliding the boat down the trailer ramp. Sweat trickled down my neck, and if I hadn’t been afraid of being poisoned by toxic sludge, I’d have made like a pig and wallowed in the mud to cool off. I kicked at a fire hydrant, trying to jolt some of the heaviest sludge off my boots, and heard a soft laugh behind me. With a final kick that sent a spray of brown gunk flying, I turned to see what was so funny. I needed a laugh. A man leaned against the side of the pickup with his arms crossed. He was a few inches shorter than Alex, maybe just shy of six feet, with sun-streaked blond hair that reached his collar and a sleeveless blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His tanned legs between the bottom of the shorts and the top of sturdy black shrimp boots were scored with scars, bad ones, as if whatever made them meant to do serious damage. He’d been grinning when I turned around, flashing a heart-stopping set of dimples, but when he saw my eyes linger on his legs, the grin eased into something more wary.

A wish was not truly a wish, until it was properly wished.

A witch is always a woman. I do not wish to speak badly about women. Most women are lovely. But the fact remains that all witches are women. There is no such thing as a male witch." (My own thoughts: I love women and I love witches)

Awareness seeped in and brought its friends Pain and Agony for a visit.

Ayara was no saviour tonight. No, she wasn’t a saviour at all. Ayara Drogon was a Shadow Assassin and she was the personification of death.

A wounded animal yet bears teeth

Bad leather, Viking gods should be naked.

Be as a seed, a seed for change. Allow my gift to grow and rearrange. Multiple blessings for many. For those with none, let there be plenty. p64

Beauty to beguile, spies to ensnare, and gold, always gold, to tempt, to trap, to control.

Beautiful sunrise in the far away mountains, painting the wide horizon with vibrant warm colors, among the chill from the morning breeze. ☥

Beauty, happiness, they're things so big they can't capture them with their scientific words. It's like what they used to call magic.

Because, between ‘reality’ on the one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality, there’s a middle zone, a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic.

Because if I lost her, I would be lost, too.

Because i am magic and,you are my precious stone.

Because now, the magic is everywhere.

Because true magic is found in the depth of one's soul.

Because you tred upon my dreams, the world is made of magic things.

Because words are a magic too, and they can contain everything.