Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

When they exited onto the street, Arch hailed a hansom, and Quincy slipped inside before he could offer her any more chivalry. There was just enough room in the carriage for two reasonably sized egos, and any tendency towards Lancelotism, Quincy told herself, was to be avoided.

When we create, we become stronger. When we create, we feel better. When we create, we can use our own two hands to create a new world. And this new world will be as we want it to be.

When we front a fiction, we are destined for loneliness.

When we make our ideals based on fiction and expect the world to fit into the moulds of those ideals, we get frustrated because different people have different ideals. Every person chooses his ideal on the basis of what suits him the most.

When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?

When writing fiction, you learn to only put things and characters in, that are going to progress your story. There is something to be learned about that approach in real life

When you come to a detour, take it.

When you confidently defend fiction, think about reality also

When you died, you died in small doses. You had trouble speaking. You forgot who was beside you. You were suddenly furious and in a panic of outrage. You wished you could be saintly. You wished you weren't so weak. You suddenly felt better and fooled yourself into believing that a miracle was about to happen. Well, wasn't that all a dirty rotten thing to pull on somebody.

When you have so much real drama in your life, it’s hard to think about fiction.

When you least expect it, you run in to an old friend from school, or the neighbour’s cat, not Mary the Virgin Mother of God.

when you live outside the law, you have to be flexible

When you read the account of a murder - or, say, a fiction story based on murder - you usually begin with the murder itself. That's all wrong. The murder begins a long time beforehand. A murder is the culmination of a lot of different circumstances, all converging at a given moment at a given point. People are brought into it from different parts of the globe and for unforeseen reasons. [...] The murder itself is the end of the story. It's Zero Hour.” He paused. “It's Zero Hour now.

When you’re used to being in dangerous situations, you develop a sixth sense about your surroundings, about where possible enemies might be lurking, how many steps it will take to reach the next corner on a dead run, the best hiding places if bullets start to fly...

When you turn around, you'll see something I bet you've never seen before. If it takes your breath away, then you'll fit in nicely. If you don't feel anything, then maybe you don't belong here.

When you touch a man's body, he will enjoy the moment, when you touch a man's heart he will remember it forever.

Where does fiction end and reality begin?

Where do they go, these dreams of mine? Do they live? Do they die? Do they fall? Do they fly?

Where are you taking me?” Andrew demanded, whirling on the Ferryman. His muscles tensed, hands curling in and out of fists. “To my master.” The voice was ghostly, whispers of black ash and death, words cold and detached. He had an idea who that was but asked anyway: “And who is your master?” No answer came. Andrew’s insatiable rage rose up and swallowed his grief like a yawning ocean mouth, the darkest depths surging to the surface to form a mighty tidal wave. He closed the distance and seized the Ferryman’s gaunt wrist. There was no substance, no life beneath the cloak. The Ferryman slowly turned his hooded head, and Andrew found himself looking into the black hole of a self-contained night. The olfactory of decay was a punch in the face. Andrew released the Ferryman’s wrist and hastily stepped back, rocking the boat as he put distance between him and the unnatural wind spilling from the gaping orifice. Andrew shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck saluting. The cloaked head faced forward again, and the wind died away.

Where characters make the story

Wherever you are lacking, your obedience in working on that before your mate comes is vital.

Whether or not the couple ends up together at the end of a book doesn't determine whether the book has a happy ending or not. As long as the two people end up happy, it doesn't really matter if they end up happy together.

While Kalila didn't quite know what she wanted, she knew what she didn't want. She didn't want to live a charade. She didn't want a marriage of convenience where you were together but alone.

While I stood on the front porch, watching him climb into his vehicle, I breathed in the humid air. I looked at the cloudless sky, and the blue vastness of it made me think about the endless opportunities that lay ahead for me. Life, I knew, was going to be different now… better. I was going to live for today and for the future. Dear past… thank you for the lessons. Dear future… I am ready.

Whether you say something out loud or you just feel it, it’s going to hurt just as much

While he sweated out a story she bled put a poem.

While parchment may burn and gold may be stained or melted down, the things that are truly important to us will never lose their value.

While the stories are fiction, the journey is real.

While what I write is always largely consistent with the records that remain I freely admit that where historical fact proves a barrier to invention, I simply move a detail a little one way or another.

Who wanted to make lemonade from lemons, when you could make perfectly good lemonade grenades?

Who can know from the word goodbye what kind of parting is in store for us.

Whoever controls the king, controls the kingdom

Who wants to go down the creepy, smelly staircase into God only knows what?" Brandon said. "I'm going," Dana said. "I'm with you." Reece stared at Brandon. "Why not?" Brandon shrugged. "It's not like we have the chance of bumping into anything, say, demonic. Right?

Why are we so hard on ourselves?" asked someone with great plaintiveness. Faith thought, it's not that I'm so hard on myself exactly, it's that I've learned to adopt the views of men as if they were my own.

Who is she, after all? Not a member of the Party. Not even a Russian...What can she do, really, but watch the ginger-haired sacrificial lamb get slaughtered? One wrong move and Florence herself might be on the chopping block herself

Why can’t I take you? Why is it so hard? You have the other half of my soul; with you I will be complete! So. Then. Why?” Crispin murmured clenching his fists. Oh, he pitied the fool who would be in his way once he returned to his domain. “Oh, what suffering will befall them in her place,” he smiled wickedly. ~Crispin~

Why did you leave? Am I not good enough? Where did you go? When did it happen? ..Who are you?

Why does the theory of evolution provoke such objections, whereas nobody seems to care about the theory of relativity or quantum mechanics? How come politicians don’t ask that kids be exposed to alternative theories about matter, energy, space and time? After all, Darwin’s ideas seem at first sight far less threatening than the monstrosities of Einstein and Werner Heisenberg. The theory of evolution rests on the principle of the survival of the fittest, which is a clear and simple – not to say humdrum – idea. In contrast, the theory of relativity and quantum mechanics argue that you can twist time and space, that something can appear out of nothing, and that a cat can be both alive and dead at the same time. This makes a mockery of our common sense, yet nobody seeks to protect innocent schoolchildren from these scandalous ideas. Why? The theory of relativity makes nobody angry, because it doesn’t contradict any of our cherished beliefs. Most people don’t care an iota whether space and time are absolute or relative. If you think it is possible to bend space and time, well, be my guest. Go ahead and bend them. What do I care? In contrast, Darwin has deprived us of our souls. If you really understand the theory of evolution, you understand that there is no soul. This is a terrifying thought not only to devout Christians and Muslims, but also to many secular people who don’t hold any clear religious dogma, but nevertheless want to believe that each human possesses an eternal individual essence that remains unchanged throughout life, and can survive even death intact.

Why do I feel like this is our destiny. There must be a reason why we have become our characters.

Why hadn't he chosen a different Amish barn to bed down in last nacht? He hated Bethany seeing him like this. Remembering him like this. A homeless wanderer. A stray.

Why do you devour everything?” I said. “Look at you—Haven’t you had your fill of life yet?” He looked at me, for all the world like an elder brother. “It is my intention,” he said, “to leave nothing left left over. No false reverence. I love my knees too much to dirty them by kneeling before anyone or anything.” “Why, you pompous fool.” “Perhaps,” he said. “You see, we don’t kneel down before that which is worthy—to think that is to make a mistake in psychology. We kneel to make ourselves worthy. We kneel as a means of generating the true spirit of submission. Not the other way around. So it is that the weak kneel, for it empowers them. It is the slave’s religion. If Narcissus kneels, Narcissus is worthy. That is the Western deal. So he kneels wherever he can. And you, you are the greatest kneeler I have ever met. You would even kneel to me. You are a born slave—yes, born to it—for you have not even the primitive republican’s desire to question your captivity. You see yourself in the heroes of books and you feel emancipated from the tyranny of living only one life. But heroes in novels are slaves, too—which is why you identify with them; they are trapped in their fictional worlds and you are trapped in the real one. If someone gave you the key to liberate yourself from your prison you wouldn’t know what to do with it.” "What is the key?” I said, in spite of myself. He paused, and gently pushed his empty glass towards me. “Brilliance.” At that moment I despised him.

Why should I struggle through hundreds of pages of fabrication to reach half a dozen very little truths?' 'For fun?' 'Fun!' He pounced on the word. 'Words are for truth. For facts. Not fiction.

Wife's name is woman.

Why do you think movies and fiction authors invent vampires, lottery winners, and soulmates? I'll tell you why: because watching someone brush their teeth, shop for sandwich meat, and change the toilet paper roll is as mind-numbing for the observer as it is for the observed. Problem is, we live the toilet paper life, not the vampire life.' ....'But we expect the vampires.

Why do we weep once we know that everything will be alright? We weep because the only way everything could ever be alright is in fiction. We weep because what we've seen can't be true, no matter how badly we wish it were. We weep at the truth.

Why have you given your life to books, TC? Dull, dull, dull! The memoirs are bad enough, but all that ruddy fiction! Hero goes on a journey, stranger comes to town, somebody wants something, they get it or they don't, will is pitted against will. "Admire me, for I am a metaphor.

Why not?

Wie willst du leugnen, liebe Freundin, dass es Wesen gibt - keine Menschen, keine Tiere - seltsame Wesen, die aus der verruchten Lust absurder Gedanken entsprangen?

Why write a song when no one can play the notes or understand the lyrics?

With a little bit of spirit in her system to help her weave the lies and facts together, Emily told the partial truth.