Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

I believe that books, once they are written, have no need of their authors. If they have something to say, they will sooner or later find readers; if not, they won’t. . . . I very much love those mysterious volumes, both ancient and modern, that have no definite author but have had and continue to have an intense life of their own. They seem to me a sort of nighttime miracle, like the gifts of the Befana, which I waited for as a child. . . . True miracles are the ones whose makers will never be known. . . . Besides, isn’t it true that promotion is expensive? I will be the least expensive author of the publishing house. I’ll spare you even my presence.

I believe that all things happen under the watchful eye of God and the lessons we learn along the way only serve to make us stronger.

I blew into L.A. streaking down the freeway, the song "L.A. Woman" blasting out of the car speakers, the wind in my hair, the music in the wind. The first thing you notice about L.A. is that it’s overflowing with people, tourists, the homeless, the starstruck, it was like an old fashioned boom town, a few ghosts wandered it’s streets but it was still booming, if L.A. lived off the people that were successful, the city would be awfully empty.

I blinked at him just casually talking about my new sex life with his genie-shiny head, and I knew at any second I would break into hysterics.

I came to the party with the sole purpose of getting completely shit-faced, to be perfectly honest. That was it, that was The Plan from the very beginning. I wanted more than anything that ever regrettable, forgetting-everything-you-learned-as-a-toddler kind of wasted that only either the completely stupid venture into or the complete novice (given how naive I was I think I fall more into the latter category). It was a very simple plan, but I like to think the simplest ones tend to be the most effective. The Plan sure as hell didn't involve everything else that happened that night, as all of that occurred quite naturally on its own.

I can be a woman on a mission. But I'll choose what mission that is. And that my friend is where youll see the results.

I came trusting them. They beat me with rods of dullness. They don't know, they don't understand how agonizing their complacent dullness is. Like ants and August sun on a wound." - Carol Kennicott

I cannot move into the fictional world of another being without modifying the color of the world in which I live when I am not reading.

I caught his hand. “What do you want me to do?” Leaning down, he kissed the pulse beating on my neck just above the damaged skin. “Tomorrow, I need you to die.

I clap my hands together. (Where do I get the strength, the burst of energy?) To chase away the ghosts. Dispel my fears. Arrange the dream. Maintain a kind of balance

I closed my eyes and dived into foreign water.

I could hardly get to sleep for dreaming of revenge.

I couldn't believe it had taken me all these years to see this side of him. He tucked himself inside a shell, shutting himself away from others here because the palace had trapped him. Behind the books and the snippy remarks there was a curious, engaging, and sometimes very charming person.

I could be wrong, but I don't believe whatever held him could possibly have satisfied his yearning. Depravity's an addiction.

I congratulate you on your success stealing the painting.

I could have drowned…and my brother didn’t even care.

I couldn't write—or wouldn't write, at any rate—unable to face the grueling self-scrutiny that fiction demands

I craved a form of naive realism. I paid special attention, I craned my readerly neck whenever a London street I knew was mentioned, or a style of frock, a real public person, even a make of car. Then, I thought, I had a measure, I could guage the quality of the writing by its accuracy, by the extent to which it aligned with my own impressions, or improved upon them. I was fortunate that most English writing of the time was in the form of undemanding social documentary. I wasn't impressed by those writers (they were spread between South and North America) who infiltrated their own pages as part of the cast, determined to remind poor reader that all the characters and even they themselves were pure inventions and the there was a difference between fiction and life. Or, to the contrary, to insist that life was a fiction anyway. Only writers, I thought, were ever in danger of confusing the two.

I'd always had a guilty preference for fiction. Since I seemed now to be living fiction, this proved to have been an entirely reasonable choice.

Ida tried not to sigh. “What do you think of your husband?” he asked. “He was rather short,” Ida said without thinking. When Aubrey didn’t respond, she thought that maybe she ought to elaborate and she said, “And beardy.” That was as much as she could remember of him in the midst of the chaotic events. He was short, bearded, quiet. But mostly short. “He used to be an officer,” Aubrey said. “So I have been told,” Ida tried, again, to keep the cheek from her voice though she was quite certain that she was failing. “In the Varangian army,” Aubrey continued. She resisted the urge to comment on how she didn’t care.

I'd been alone for so long that I started talking to the radio. At least I assumed that's where the voices were coming from. In the country that produced Luther, Nietzsche, and Adolf Hitler, you can never be absolutely sure about these things.

I'd been sent to Girl Scout Camp... I believed for years afterward that tongues should taste like the clovers we'd sucked for the honey at their roots.

I’d always hated cocktail parties. And this one was worse than most. Overdressed pseudo–people smiled plastic smiles, told one–upmanship stories with phony self–deprecation, then half–listened with painted–on sincerity to the one–upmanship rebuttals. Mannequins. Robots. Androids. Pseudo–people laboring in the vineyards of pseudo–intellectualism to gather the bitter grapes of self–aggrandizement.

Idealistic world views should be our focus.

Ideas either age like fine wine or rot like potatoes over time.

Identity was everything, but it seemed I never had one. (Jessica)

I decided to coin the term 'cosy crime noir' for Brighton Belle. That is 'cosy crime' for today's sensibilities because there is that slightly edgy element to it.

I desperately wanted to say Please Don’t Waste Your Time on Me because I feared that I would somehow be the cause of his undoing if I allowed him to faun over me in the ways that his heart desired. He was, after all, Enlightened and I was a Caster. There was no possibility of his interest in me ever becoming anything more than a romantic fable...

I didn’t even have a name for her, shade or human, but I didn’t need one to know her. (Eric)

I didn't even notice that my shoes were full of mud by the time I reached the rocky shore. There was ragged yellow police tape tied to some branches, dancing in the wind. It was as if the tape was waving, welcoming me back to place where I would have died.

I didn't know then that the mind, like the earth, has several layers: a crust, a mantle, a boiling core.

I didn't wait to see her ship go off, because partings are stupid things and best got over quickly

I didn't want to be the woman who gave herself over willingly to the first man to notice her. I didn't want to be the stupid girl in every novel who loved without question and entered relationships that didn't make sense.

I distracted Herbert by pretending to trip and break a bone. Ethan darted around to the red golf cart with a cocky smile on his face. He put the key in ignition, and the vehicle roared to life. “Hey,” Herbert shouted, snapping his attention to Ethan. I sprang up and ran up to Ethan. He pulled me in the cart and stomped on the gas pedal. We shot through the automatic doors with Herbert on our tail. “Go faster!” I cheered. My brother smacked the steering wheel. “I can’t; it’s a golf cart.

I do love you. I love you enough to accept who you are. Why can’t I received the same feeling in return?” -Ariel

I do not need a scabbard to sheathe my mind.

I don't know. But it takes a special woman to have such a great love - Zhongwen

I don't know how the Wolfman knows all this, but he's not wrong. My warm cheeks turn scalding hot. "Your shame is a good sign. You may break sooner than I thought. The breaking is good. It purifies.

I don’t know. It can’t be outfought, it can’t be outdone, it can’t be outrun. It’s just the way it is. There is no Justice, except the one that is paid for. In blood, or money. I don’t have money.

I don't know what it is about this man that makes me melt into a puddle.

I don't know who you are," she thought, "but whoever you are, you're one hell of a player.

I don't know who he was," Kavita flat-out states, "but whoever he was he sure did a number on you, didn't he?" Mary leans forward to ensure he would see her deviant stare. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I did a number on him?" Kavita leans in closer as well, and with that same deviant expression, "Yes. I have.

I don't pay much attention to the distinction between fantasy and science fiction–or between “genre” and “mainstream” for that matter. For me, all fiction is about prizing the logic of metaphors-which is the logic of narratives in general–over reality, which is irreducibly random and senseless. We spend our entire lives trying to tell stories about ourselves–they’re the essence of memory. It is how we make living in this unfeeling accidental universe tolerable. That we call such a tendency “the narrative fallacy” doesn’t mean it doesn’t also touch upon some aspect of the truth. Some stories simply literalize their metaphors a bit more explicitly.

I don’t think I’ve ever referred to any girl I dated as my girlfriend. I think that would freak me out. Even the girl that I dated for two years in college I don’t think I ever referred to her as my girlfriend.” “How would you introduce her?” I asked. “I’m just going to say her name,” he said.

I don't watch reality TV, my reality is tough enough.

If all that one sees is a tiny speck of perspective in the larger scheme of things. And each perspective is made alive by the amalgamation of learning. And learning is a mere accumulation of skill and knowledge : both deriving from Truth. And Truth is not absolute but more of a figment of one's imagination made apparent to the senses. Then all, or for the most part, is fiction.

If anyone ever saw me, they might call me a spirit, or an angel, or a ghost. They would try to describe me, but they’d be wrong. Even I didn’t know what I was. I only knew one thing—I needed to keep Michael safe.

If Audrey sensed what he was contemplating, her silence did not let on. He turned from the window and found her looking at him with a flawless poker face. It may have been attentiveness and curiosity to hear what he would say next, or perhaps she was expecting from him what women throughout the ages, often against their better judgment, had expected of men.

If a woman chooses to support her husband and become First Lady, I believe she must do so with the understanding that the public expects the full-meal deal.

If certain aspect needs to be inconsistent, it must better be consistently inconsistent throughout the story.