Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

Her eyes were a rich dark brown that were so deep, they reminded me of my sleepless nights, awake, staring into complete darkness. I felt compelled to look deeper, searching for something inside her, but her soul was covered and her eyes would not show me.

Her kiss could kill us, and my consent signed our death certificates, selfishly and without control. (Eric)

Her scream of utter horror and fright was a sound that no one in the chamber would ever forget. ~Crispin.~

He sent it flying at full speed. It jumped six times as well, sending ripples across the sea. The small splashes of foam turned into miniature rainbows as they caught the light of the evening sun setting behind the clouds.

He's made me believe I'm worth love of the liquid kind, you know, the kind that seeps to all my damaged parts.

He snatched up the reins again, holding her tight. There was nothing affectionate or remotely romantic about the gesture; it was desperation, like a man clinging to a ledge. "We run.

He's probably somewhere right now eating a Big-N-Tasty. The man has a coffee pot, a microwave, AND a mini refrigerator in his classrooom. If you plan on having a conversation with him, I suggest you do it over the phone. Otherwise, you'll need a motorcycle helmet just to avoid the Snickers shrapnel flying from his mouth!

He strained his ears, and the darkness felt heavier than before. Oppressive. “We’re hungry.” That came from behind him. “They smell tasty,” a voice to his left hissed. “I don’t like this,” Andrew said, feeling like the world around them was spinning with voices, taunting, echoing them. “I don’t like this,” a voice parroted. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this. I don’t like this.

He tracks the rise and fall of the glittering darkness thronged with specks and tendrils of luminous secrets. Falling stars crackle in the cold air and prickle his skin. They flash in the corner of his vision where the eye’s discernment of light and shadow is most acute.

He thought, that all men, trickled away, changing constantly, until they finally dissolved, while the artist-created images remained unchangeably the same. He thought that the fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life’s instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do. Perhaps the woman after whom the master shaped his beautiful Madonna is already wilted or dead, and soon he, too, will be dead; others will live in his house and eat at his table- but his work will still be standing hundreds of years from now, and longer. It will go on shimmering in the quiet cloister church, unchangingly beautiful, forever smiling with the same sad, flowering mouth.

He was a lawyer and he knew that it would be best to trust his journalist friend, but not to tell his own lawyer

He was a peculiar sight. Tears rolling down his face, shouting to drown the sound of the singing rabbit; he said he needed help, pointed to a chicken, handed over some money, grabbed his parcel and bolted out the door in panic. Boys, thought the butcher. Drugs, thought the woman. Justin Case, thought Dorothea.

He was goin' on four and he used to eat fireflies. I don't know. I think he thought they'd make him glow.

He was not a likeable figure but then when you are a part of a family, you cannot wish to see someone wither away even when you dislike him. He is a part of your blood, he and all his idiosyncrasies. There is always a tinge of warmth in the corner of your heart, reminiscent of the good times spent together. Then there are always those moments, when you wonder why everything turned out so different. When you wonder what possibly could hold people together, if not the fact that they come from the same blood? Or are we just not born to be that way? Craving to be something that we cannot be, each with our own false ceilings to hide our true selves?

He wasn't, I realized when I read those scenes concerning Blair and myself, close to any of us-- except of course to Blair, and really not even to her. He was simply someone who floated through our lives and didn't seem to care how flatly he perceived everyone or that he'd shared our secret failures with the world, showcasing the youthful indifference, the gleaming nihilism, glamorizing the horror of it all. But there was no point in being angry with him.

He was tender with her. He wiped her eyelids with his handkerchief, not noticing how soiled it was. It was stained with ink, crumpled, stuck together. Her lids were large and tender and the handkerchief was stiff, not nearly soft enough. He moistened a corner in his mouth. He was painfully aware of the private softness of her skin, of how the eyes trembled beneath their coverings. He dried the tears with an affection, a particularity, that had never been exercised before. It was a demonstration of 'nature.' He was a birth-wet foal rising to his feet.

He was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a featherhat, walking on his hind legs.

He wishes he could remember everything. Anything. He doesn’t sense a bone in his body that can feel compassion or worthiness. Self-pity hides away as well, the lowest form of emotion not even capable of resting in his wrecked mind.

He would always be around you, not in these words or paintings, but in your heart. He will always be in happy memories. You can't cage his worth in few pages and colors.

Hey, I write fiction. I just make this stuff up, unless I get my hands on some good juicy truth. You know the kind I'm talking about ... that stranger-than variety.

Hey now, wait a second. When will I see you again? You can’t leave a poor lad dangling like that!” His look of bewilderment made me bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Why would you w-want to?” The words were out before I could stop them. A rare occurrence for me. And now I seemed pathetically needy. Very attractive. “Because I love a pair of pretty green eyes.” He grinned.

His allure, as he stood there, his face, even with the red swollen eyes, everything about him was gorgeous.

High in the hazy sky, the snowfkakes looked tiny and all alike, but as they drifted past the narrow window of the sewing room, all were unique - long or round or triangular - as if they'd borrowed their shapes from the clouds they'd come from.

His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary

His blue eyes slice through me and make me wish I hadn't come.

His fierce appreciation of female beauty, the unrelenting desire he felt for their company, the pleasure he both derived and sought to give, had led him in and out of quite a few bedroom doors.

His fingers painted my skin with ruby red patterns of desire. In Keahi’s kiss I could taste the red burn of chili encrusted in the rich sweetness of melted chocolate. I breathed in his scent and it spoke to me of vanilla. The ink of my malu tattoo began to burn, searing markings of fiery joy.

His eyes go wide while a gasp of wonder passes his lips. He turns his body fully toward us. His lips moving like a fish out of water, gasping for breath. He gives his head a shake and stutters out, “Mer—mermaids. There are fish with women’s bodies or—women with fish bodies sitting upon the rocks. I—I never knew...

His deadpan expression turned bitter with a curl of his lip. “Save your sermon for some other sap. Nobody shares money—not even dead people. Why do you think they invented wills and trust funds?

His hands on my waist he gently pulled me n embrace. I could feel his breath on my face our lips were about to meet when the bell rang.

His real name is A.J., but he is known in Heaven as Armor because of how resilient he is in his faith and how persistent he is with his prayers.

His lips found her throat, teeth grazing across the vein that was pounding just above her collarbone. The combined sensations were driving her a little crazy with need. She needed him, all of him that she could get, and she intended to make the best of the time they had together.

History for the most part is just bad fiction.

His smile is beautiful. It's the kind of smile that can take away all nervousness and tension in a room, no matter how big. I have no choice but to smile back.

History is indeed stranger than fiction. The twists and turns of human history are too outlandish for to be believable in any work of fiction.

histories of the world before our own. That was a world of empires, of corruption, of war-and more freedom than I've ever known. But the people of that time are gone, their dreams in ruin, existing only in smoke and ash.

History has a way of chasing gravity just like water, feeding into other parts of itself to become something else, something larger and grander, until the one pure thing it was no longer exists.

His wife had also studied art in her hometown, and she could paint, but depending on such work for her livelihood was just not possible. As far as appearances went, she was definitely a real beauty. When she was young, she looked a little like Gong Li, but now that she was middle-aged, she had put on weight and gradually taken on more of a bell-shaped look, resembling Li Siqin. But no matter what, a wife always looks better than her balding, broadbellied husband.

History is written by the survivors.

Honor is for the living. Dead is dead.

Ho scoperto una cosa inestimabile in questo viaggio durato un anno intero, cioè che ognuno di noi nasce con un destino: salvare una persona, almeno una. È l’unico dettaglio già scritto della nostra esistenza ed è un compito inconscio. A volte non ce ne rendiamo nemmeno conto. Non sappiamo calcolare quanto sia determinante essere lì in quel momento per qualcuno, non ne capiamo l’importanza. Quel qualcuno, però, non ci scorderà mai. Non dimenticherà che lo abbiamo afferrato, aspettato, ascoltato. Comunque andrà la mia vita, so che mi ricorderò di Dario e Lore. Per sempre. Loro sono la colata d’oro massiccio che ha messo insieme tutti i miei frantumi.

How can even the idea of rebellion against corporate culture stay meaningful when Chrysler Inc. advertises trucks by invoking “The Dodge Rebellion”? How is one to be bona fide iconoclast when Burger King sells onion rings with “Sometimes You Gotta Break the Rules”? How can an Image-Fiction writer hope to make people more critical of televisual culture by parodying television as a self-serving commercial enterprise when Pepsi and Subaru and FedEx parodies of self-serving commercials are already doing big business? It’s almost a history lesson: I’m starting to see just why turn-of-the-century Americans’ biggest fear was of anarchist and anarchy. For if anarchy actually wins, if rulelessness become the rule, then protest and change become not just impossible but incoherent. It’d be like casting a ballot for Stalin: you are voting for an end to all voting.

How can she explain to him that every tear takes her further and further away from the box of razors that lies between them. How can she explain that she is terrified of such a thing happening. That although she thought she wanted freedom from her implements, she doesn't know if she can handle what she's experiencing now. That she wants to know that she is still in charge of her grief. That her blades have always done her bidding.

How can you be kissing at a time like this? Have you no respect for the dead?

How charming. The king and his little princess knocking on my covens door.” Ursula sighed dramatically. “What do you insolent merfolks want with me now? I swear I haven’t eaten any of your children.” -Ursula

How come when mortals want things, their only option is to make a deal with Hell and sell their soul? Why can’t they make deals with God in exchange for good behavior?" It was another of those rare moments when I’d surprised Carter. I waited for the glib answer I’d mentioned to Seth, something along the lines of goodness being its own reward. The angel considered for several seconds. "Humans make those deals all the time," he said finally. "They just don’t make them with God." "Then who are they making them with?" I exclaimed. "Themselves.

How can you do sin with hands you used for prayers?

How did I end up in this situation? I'm the district sales manager of a napkin factor. Why is my daughter in space?

How does evil arise? Where does it come from? We think of malevolent men-— murderers, rapists, tyrants—and somehow believe they are different creatures from us. They are not. All evil men were once innocent babes, once lovable children. Men make choices, some consistently bad. But those who choose the worst kinds of evil were typically guided into it.

How did you get so scratched up then, Emlynn?” He looked at me uncertainly again. I felt wildly like laughing. Too many swooping highs and plummeting lows. What a weird few days. Weird being a massive understatement. “Cr-Crawling through gorse bushes.” I took a perverse delight in answering his questions in a way that told him nothing at all. I’d never paid much attention to boys before. Maybe Grace was onto something after all. “Crawling through gorse,” he repeated. “Part of your action-girl antics, no doubt?” “N-no doubt.” I smirked again.