Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

Even though he did not hear me sometimes so that I had to repeat my questions a second or third time. By then my tone was as abrasive as the coarse hair or the boar. How he annoyed me!

Even though we don't admit it, every single one of us aspires to be like somebody, whether they live in the world today, within the bard's lyrics, or on the pages in the Library

Eventually, you're gonna have to let someone in.

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

Everyday, God gives us the sun- and also one moment in which we have the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Everyday, we try to pretend that we haven't perceived that moment, that it doesn't exist - that today is the sames as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention to their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment.

Every healthy person at some period must feed on fiction as well as fact; because fact is a thing which the world gives to him, whereas fiction is a thing which he gives to the world.

...every harsh word spoken, every such act or even thought doesn’t just disappear - it hangs around somewhere in totality and some day it boomerangs to haunt us.

Every minute I decide not to kill you is a minute your life is saved. You owe me everything.

every man has his own story, his own agony ("The Watcher O' The Dead")

Everyone asks me how I got started into writing. I wish I had some cool story to tell, but the truth is pretty lame. My wife and I were having a drink on our back porch and I mentioned a concept I'd been mulling over. She suggested that I write it down, and so I figured I'd make a few notes and get it out of my system. No matter how I tried though, it just wouldn't let me write it in any other way than a story. Believe me when I say I tried, but 63,000 words later I realized that I needed a chart to track the plot and personas to maintain character consistency. So I just gave up and let it write itself from that point on. As far as I'm concerned at this point, I'm just hanging on and trying to keep up.

Everyone has a monster inside

Everyone says you only fall in love once, but that not true, because every time I see you, I fall in love all over again

Everyone will be tracked, cradle to grave, with no possibility of escape.

Everyone writes the book he or she loves to read. Great authors write the books others love to read.

Every person's life is fiction, an illusion written by God's fingers.

Every second of my time, every letter of my word. One reason of my crime, two feathers of my bird.

Every step taken is the first of a new journey. Its up to me if I choose to contine walking or I might love it so much I will run. www.thethreeimmortalblades.com

Everything bleeds into everything and fiction is just this funny desperate little attempt to staunch the bleeding.

Everything I know, I know because of love.

Everything great that ever happened in this world started from the imagination of the people. When a fiction becomes a reality, the person becomes a visionary.

Everything, really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.

Everything seemed so unreal—so supernatural—and I had to remind myself that is was. We weren’t human. We never were. (Jessica)

Everything was quiet now. It was even too freaky quiet. The house seemed big without anyone else inside. It felt lonely; like a ghost town.

Everything we know and believe about deity and divinity nowadays, is a direct origin of old civilizations. Everybody, Greeks, Saxons, Assyrians and Soumerians, all imitate the ancient ways of the first tribes of central Africa (Mason father to his son in "The Omniconstant

Every time I had things straight in my head about him, I saw him smile or crook an eyebrow, and all my sensible reasons on why I couldn’t have feelings for him seemed redundant.

Every time I pulled her back in only to disappoint her, I had unintentionally been solidifying what her mum had been telling her all these years. That she wasn’t enough, she wasn’t enough for me to take a chance on her or on us. I’d realised all too late that I was a coward, while she was petrified of never being enough for someone; she kept offering me a chance to prove her worries wrong. She was the strong one here.

Evil knows its time to end is soon at hand, hence why it is more than determined to succeed.

Faced with the prospect of a black depression, Highsmith once again retreated into fantasy, dreaming about an affair with the actress Anne Meacham, whose picture she had seen in a magazine publicising her role in the Tennessee Williams' play, In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel. After the disasters of recent years, she reckoned that the safest option was to escape into romantic imagination. She reviewed her failures over the past five years and concluded that 'the moral is: stay alone. Any idea of any close relationship should be imaginary, like any story I am writing. This way no harm is done to me or to any other person'.

Evet anne." Ağzı kupkuruydu,ama kendine dudaklarını yalama izni vermeyecekti.Onun yerine sıkıca birbirine bastırdı.Babamın çalışma odasında kırmızı elbiseli küçük bir kız var ve kahkahalar atarak bir kenarına mengene monte edilmiş masanın altında saklanmış ve sıyrılmış dizlerini göğsüne çekip,sırtını bin çekmeceli büyük dolaba yaslamış halde oturarak daima orada olacak.Çok mutlu bir kız.Ama annemin salonunda çişini köpek gibi tutmayı beceremeyen çok daha küçük bir kız var.Küçük,kötü bir köpek yavrusu gibi.Ve ben aksini ne kadar dilesem de o daima salonda kalacak.

Exactly. When is comes to anything halfway important, you just don't get it. It's amazing to me that you can put a piece of fiction together' 'Yeah, well, that's a whole different thing.' (from Honey Pie)

Fadwick Gorrim, at your service, OLD BOY!” he shouted at his face. “Can it be you, Pyrus? It’s been so long, Py!” Pyrus looked at the ground and shifted his eyes about the courtyard, avoiding his stare.

Fair enough…No inhaling battery acid,” I smirk. “We can’t breathe battery acid, can we?

Existence has taught me that a man can live on love and fresh water, on crumbs and promises, but he can never survive insults. And insults are all I've known since I came into the world. Every morning. Every evening. That's all I've seen for my whole life.

-Ey büyük Enesay,ey ulu nehir!Eğer senin derinliklerine bir dağ atsalar,o dağ orada bir taş gibi kaybolup gider.Eğer yüz yıllık bir çam ağacını atsalar,onu bir çöp gibi aparırsın!Senin için iki kum tanesi gibi olan şu iki insan yavrusunu kucağına kabul et.Bu yavrulara bu dünyada yer yok artık.Bunu ben mi sana söyleyeyim Enesay?Eğer yıldızlar insan olsa,gökyüzü onlara dar gelir,sığmazlardı.Eğer balıklar insan olsa,nehirler ve denizler onlara yetmezdi.Bunu ben mi sana söyleyeyim Enesay!Al onları,apar onları!Varsın onlar körpecik iken,temiz yürekli,kötü emeller ve kötü niyetlerle lekelenmemiş iken,temiz vicdanları insanların çektiği azablarlarla dolmadan,kendileri de başkalarına açık çektirmeden,bizim iğrenç dünyamızı terketsinler!Al bunları,apar bunları ey ulu Enesay!...

Fairy tales, fantasy, legend and myth...these stories, and their topics, and the symbolism and interpretation of those topics...these things have always held an inexplicable fascination for me," she writes. "That fascination is at least in part an integral part of my character — I was always the kind of child who was convinced that elves lived in the parks, that trees were animate, and that holes in floorboards housed fairies rather than rodents. You need to know that my parents, unlike those typically found in fairy tales — the wicked stepmothers, the fathers who sold off their own flesh and blood if the need arose — had only the best intentions for their only child. They wanted me to be well educated, well cared for, safe — so rather than entrusting me to the public school system, which has engendered so many ugly urban legends, they sent me to a private school, where, automatically, I was outcast for being a latecomer, for being poor, for being unusual. However, as every cloud does have a silver lining — and every miserable private institution an excellent library — there was some solace to be found, between the carved oak cases, surrounded by the well–lined shelves, among the pages of the heavy antique tomes, within the realms of fantasy. Libraries and bookshops, and indulgent parents, and myriad books housed in a plethora of nooks to hide in when I should have been attending math classes...or cleaning my room...or doing homework...provided me with an alternative to a reality I didn't much like. Ten years ago, you could have seen a number of things in the literary field that just don't seem to exist anymore: valuable antique volumes routinely available on library shelves; privately run bookshops, rather than faceless chains; and one particular little girl who haunted both the latter two institutions. In either, you could have seen some variation upon a scene played out so often that it almost became an archetype: A little girl, contorted, with her legs twisted beneath her, shoulders hunched to bring her long nose closer to the pages that she peruses. Her eyes are glued to the pages, rapt with interest. Within them, she finds the kingdoms of Myth. Their borders stand unguarded, and any who would venture past them are free to stay and occupy themselves as they would.

Family is a permanent adhesive that creates a lifetime bond.

Far from being opposed to the truth, fiction is only its by-product.

Fantasy or fiction is just a persons secret life. A world they want to be in. The only diffrence between them and you, is that they wrote it down in detail, printed it and shared it with the world.

Father, what are you to do now?” Triton’s sneer grew scarier. “She broke the law.” turning away from the terrified faces of his daughters. “She must die.

Fallen angels of my destroyed army, Hear my command. Rise up from my evil, Destroy the Promised Land!

Fantasy is storytelling with the beguiling power to transform the impossible into the imaginable, and to reveal our own “real” world in a fresh and truth-bearing light.

Farther down the riverbank sat a young man dressed all in white. He was the only person in sight. His hair was white, his skin chalk pale, and he sat and stared up and down the river, as if he were admiring the view. He looked like how Victorian Romantic poets looked just before the consumption and drug abuse really started to cut it." --Good Omens pg.191-192

Father and the child were no longer speaking, but they sat together in silence. The child was at his feet, and he sat, up in his throne, his eyes on the sky as well. It made her smile. They existed beneath the same stretch of stars. They loved the same night blanket above them. She looked at him, taking the opportunity to relish in his distraction to study him, his midnight hair, his pale body, only barely covered by the cloak, the fur of it distractingly like his hair, his lips just parted enough that his fangs were visible, his deep violet eyes, his long, elegant fingers, stroking the… She swallowed back pain that rose up her throat as she watched Father stroking the boy’s hair. Sitting together like that, the similarities between them were bewitching. She frowned, glancing once, disdainfully at the wavy-haired child with the slanted green eyes, walking to her Father’s throne and bending her knee in a bow. There was a sound like a chuckle, and she looked up at him. He was smiling at her. It warmed the quiet cold in her chest. “Come,” he said in his sonorous voice, and the darkness whispered with it, a thousand voices in varying degrees of age, gender, depth and lifted sweetness, all speaking together. She moved closer to him, sitting where his arm wound around her shoulder, fitting them together like childish toy blocks.

Fate was a reality, but it wasn’t a beautiful or angelic thing. It was a heart-wrenching nightmare. And we’d fallen blindly into it. We had no escape. It was happening, and it was up to me to guarantee our survival of it. (Eric)

Fear is a prison in which we place ourselves. You need only to press against the bars to realize that the door is always unlocked, and you are always free to leave.

Fiction: a game of pretend.

Fiction and poetry are doses, medicines. What they heal is the rupture reality makes on the imagination.

Fiction can show you a different world. It can take you somewhere you've never been. Once you've visited other worlds, like those who ate fairy fruit, you can never be entirely content with the world that you grew up in. Discontent is a good thing: discontented people can modify and improve their worlds, leave them better, leave them different. And while we're on the subject, I'd like to say a few words about escapism. I hear the term bandied about as if it's a bad thing. As if "escapist" fiction is a cheap opiate used by the muddled and the foolish and the deluded, and the only fiction that is worthy, for adults or for children, is mimetic fiction, mirroring the worst of the world the reader finds herself in. If you were trapped in an impossible situation, in an unpleasant place, with people who meant you ill, and someone offered you a temporary escape, why wouldn't you take it? And escapist fiction is just that: fiction that opens a door, shows the sunlight outside, gives you a place to go where you are in control, are with people you want to be with(and books are real places, make no mistake about that); and more importantly, during your escape, books can also give you knowledge about the world and your predicament, give you weapons, give you armour: real things you can take back into your prison. Skills and knowledge and tools you can use to escape for real. As JRR Tolkien reminded us, the only people who inveigh against escape are jailers.

Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing. But it is also more than that; it stands on firmer ground, being based on the reality of forms and the observation of social phenomena, whereas history is based on documents and the reading of print and handwriting on second-hand impression. Thus fiction is nearer truth.

fiction is necessary to life - not only as books but as dreams, dreams that frame the world and give it meaning.