Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

The weather in this land was quite unruly, and if you couldn't appreciate the many shades of gray, you had no business living in it. Alden Garrat Warrior Heart

The Wheel of Time spins: there is beginning and there is end. But why does the Wheel of Time spin? Is it some divine force that propels it? Or is that force humanity, people in search of change and a better way of life? – Asvattama Bharadvaja

The web is a dangerous place for a mind begging to slack off and be distracted by nonsense.

The white lily stands for purity. Artists for centuries have pictured the angel Gabriel coming to the virgin Mary with a spray of lillies in his hand, to announce that she is to be the mother of the Turks.

The wind blowing through the cracks in the walls was fitting for this isolated and lonely place.

The woman felt healed. This stranger understood her. He knew, on a personal level, everything she was going through. And he was asking her to stay alive. Because of him, her angry feelings melted away. She wanted to live again.

The Witcher had a knife to his throat. He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimfull with soapsuds, his head thrown agains the slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam's apple painfully and moved towards his chin with a grating sound.

The woman turns away; one wing blackens like an onyx gem while the other glows white like a bright spotlight. She flies into the sky, leaving the crowd staring in astonishment. Angels fly away in two directions. Half make a black storm of moving, twisting shapes. The other half forms a white-as-snow moving cloud. The ranks are divided.

The word "avant-garde," for example, despite its note of impartiality, generally serves to dismiss-as though by a shrug of the shoulders-any work that risks giving a bad conscience to the literature of mass consumption.

The world of a cat is unlike any other. What is seen through their eyes cannot be understood by anyone besides another cat. Their world is filled with secrets and adventures that are always present and forever changing. To look at the world as a cat is to look through the veil of reality.

The world you are in – Is the true hell. The journey to Truth itself Is what quickens the heart to become lighter. The lighter the heart, the purer it is. The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes. And the heavier the heart, The more chained to this hell It will remain.

The world that spun from the web of her imagination was manifestly more real to [Patricia Highsmith] than what she saw before her. It was as if, like her fiction, she inhabited a paraxial region, and area which, like one of the working titles for Strangers on a Train, could be said to lie at 'The Other Side of the Mirror'.

The world was ersatz and actual, forged and faked, by ourselves and unseen others. Daring to attempt to absolutely sort fake from real was a folly that would call down tigers or hiccups to cure us of our recklessness. The effort was doomed, for it too much pointed past the intimate boundaries of our necessary fictions.

The worth, height, and beauty of writing, lie upon its level and nature of fiction.

The Worst thing that Good could do to Evil was ignore it...

The writing seemed like the books that held it; crumbly and antique and bearing the stink of centuries. Still, it was compelling. His voice was smooth and kind, and once in a while an observation that would ring so true it vibrated like flicked crystal.

The writer's characters must stand before us with a wonderful clarity, such continuous clarity that nothing they do strikes us as improbable behavior for just that character, even when the character's action is, as sometimes happens, something that came as a surprise to the writer himself. We must understand, and the writer before us must understand, more than we know about the character; otherwise neither the writer nor the reader after him could feel confident of the character's behavior when the character acts freely.

They again kissed each other and fell asleep. The patch of light on the ceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye, that stared wildly and fixedly upon the pale, slumbering couple who reeked with crime beneath their very sheets, and dreamt they could see a rain of blood falling in big drops, which turned into golden coins as they plashed upon the floor.

They are the children of the strangers,I told her. They have no faces. They have eyes. Pretend they are birds. They cant see us. They don't know it yet. they don't want to believe it, but they wont ever see us again.

They are my men and this ship my responsibility. I vowed no woman would ever alter my path. Yet I kept them from ending you, and it makes me sick to the gut, for I would still rather die myself than see one hair on your head damaged by another man.

They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous term, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit, and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else; it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words.

They placed their bets with such self righteous bravado, but I’m the one who lost.

They say it came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Thainos, uttered just as one world perished and another began; that it was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door that was cracked open in the Antilles. Fukú Americanus, or more colloquially, fukú-generally a curse or a doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and Doom of the New World.

They say 'Chaos is the ally of the desperate man,' and I reckon it applies to dwarves and snot-nosed boys too. Let's test is at the front gate, shall we?

They talked in hushed tones while looking at her, sending chills all over her body. This was not happening, this was not going to happen to her.

They stared into the distance as though they were being absorbed into an alternate space-time reality. Perhaps they were. But probably they already had been.

They think I'm not dealing with my grief, but I simply refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing it. I won't let them console me and feel like they've played their part well and done all they could do. I will not let them make today about them, and I refuse to make today about me. Today is about him.

They watch her when she comes to City Hall, they watch her at the social events, they watch the way she walks, hips rolling with no suggestion of provocation but with every sense that she knows more than any of the rest. A woman like that, they seem to be thinking, a woman like that has lived. Their wives from Orange County, they come from Minnesota or Dallas or St.Louis. They come from places with families, with sagging mothers and fathers with dead eyes and heavy-hanging brows. They carry their own promise of future slackness and clipped lips and demands. They have sisters, sisther with more babies, babies with sweet saliva hanging and more appliance and with husbands with better salaries and two cars and club membership. They iron in housedresses in front of the television set or by the radio, steam rising, matting their faces, as the children with the damp necks cling on them, sticky-handed. They are this. And Alice… and Alice…

They were going to expel me. Mom convinced them not to... and got them to apologize," Fern said, almost embarrassed. Really?" Eddie said. "See, Sammy, you don't mess with the Commander, do you?" Eddie playfully hit his younger brother in the stomach with the back of his hand. When the Commander says jump...," Sam started. We say, 'yes ma'am, how high?'" Eddie ended with a forehead salute.

They walked out into the first morning after the apocalypse - a day that had just barged in sweaty and unkempt like a late commuter, asking, Anything happen while I was out?

They will try to ascribe a purpose to my death, as though it were a punishment, but don’t you do so, in order that I continue to live in all the shadows of your longing. I will always be in your sleep and your wakefulness. I will be with you praying, propitiating and yearning for you, in sadness, in sorrow, in dismay and in the most profound happiness.

They were rebellious through their artistic expression and their uplifting spirits

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Things that try to look like things often do look more like things than things.

This is love not business or politics. I love someone. How can I replace her with someone else?

This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy.

This girl, this girl, and he a man with a business and a secretary and a house with a furnace and bills and a son and a roof with three shingles and a pretty birdpath made of stone that I sometimes see Mrs.Shaw, her tied back with a scarf, cleaning with a dainty skimmer. How does this man, a man like this, like any of them, come to walk at night and stand in a girl’s backyard, and then, smoking and looking up, suddenly feel himself helpless to bher bright magic?

This is m-me.” I indicated the lonely track. “Really? What’s up there?” He peered over my shoulder in genuine curiosity. “Is there a house up there? You’re not a sylph or something that really does live wild, are you?

This is not one of your fictions where people bleed ink.

This isn’t fiction, the man says. This is the Post Office.

This is one of the problems with reality: the extent to which it resembles bad fiction.

This is what we are for, Alin,” the older guardsman said, turning to his companion. Adare had never heard anyone use Birch’s first name. She hadn’t even known it herself. “Our lives for hers. If she refuses this, there’s no saying what the zealots will do to her.” “There’s no saying what the zealots will do if she agrees,” Birch pointed out. “We can’t save her if we’re dead.” “That is a risk that the princess will have to assess for herself. Our duty is to serve.” “I thought service meant fighting,” Birch protested, but the anger had gone out of him. Resignation thinned his voice. “Sometimes, Alin,” Fulton replied, nodding. “And sometimes it means dying.

This ain't beauty,' Rook said, and spat savagely- grossly- downwind. "Just some nasty shadows masquerading.

This is a work of fiction, and the people in it are fictitious. The ghosts are real.

This is the right time They are the right people Will it be enough for mankind? From "The Rishis: Book of Secrets.

This is your life – not your parents’, teachers’ or significant other’s. If you ever find yourself on a path that just doesn’t feel safe anymore, you have every right to stop the car, get out – change your shoes and start walking.

This time, when I look into his eyes, I see a gleam of mischief. And that's f**king exciting.

This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn't turn out to be like Literature. Look at our parents--were they the stuff of Literature? At best, they might aspire to the condition of onlookers and bystanders, part of a social backdrop against which real, true, important things could happen. Like what? The things Literature was about: Love, sex, morality, friendship, happiness, suffering, betrayal, adultery, good and evil, heroes and villains, guilt and innocence, ambition, power, justice, revolution, war, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, the individual against society, success and failure, murder, suicide, death, God.

This was the blissful break when the world seemed a safer place, between the end of the Cold War and about ten minutes later.

Thomas Randall and Christopher Golden not only are inventive writers but write in a sense to grab your attention cover to cover! I absolutely advise you to read,"The Waking" series. You'll love it if you are into the movie,"The- Grudge". I'm currently working on reading the second book of the trilogy.