Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

Convention itself, like metaphor itself, is not dead; but it is always dying.

Couldn’t you have lied about something else?" OWEN gave me a long, blank look, as if by asking this question I had betrayed a fundamental lack of understanding with respect to the intensity of his hangover.

Create a world in front of your readers where they can taste, smell, touch, hear, see, and move. Or else they are likely going to move on to another book.

Creativity is a commodity and derives its value only in how energy is spent.

Creative thinking is the spice of great innovations.

Crushes don't just develop over time,they are built over the foundation of basic trust.

Cursed the crown that brought such grief to me

Cutting someone's heart out with a spoon would be an unwise thing to do.

Curiosity is called curiosity because of how curiously it can creep into people’s behavior no matter what dangers are around.

Dalam cerpen-cerpennya ini, Puthut harus bergelut imajinasi kolektif dimana keadilan telah dilumpuhkan. Demi pembangunan, demi kedewasaan berbangsa. Demi Peradapan. Imaji kolektif yang tidak lagi mampu membedakan antara yang bohong dan benar, dimana keadilan dibiarkan bergandengan dengan kembar-palsunya, ketidakadilan, mengambang dalam ambiguitas berbahaya. Kalaupun publik masih mampu membedakan, perbedaan itu harus cepat-cepat dipendam di alam bawah sadar. Bingkai “aku” Puthut di samping memberi suara kepada kemurnian pertanyaan belia__yang terlalu sering dianggap gangguan__ menambahkan sesuatu yang barangkali belum tampil dalam penuturan Paramoedya pada awal berdirinya nasion Indonesia, yaitu pergantian generasi dan efek pengaburan konseptual yang telah berlangsung lebih dari 40 tahun.

Cynicism can blind one to subtler virtues

Dacă îți îmbunătățești prezentul, tot ce se va întâmpla apoi va fi mai bine.

Dacă vei putea rămâne mereu în prezent, vei fi un om fericit. Vei simți că în deșert există viață, că cerul are stele, și că războinicii se luptă pentru că asta face parte din rasa omenească. Viața va fi o sărbătoare, o mare sărbătoare pentru că ea este numai și numai momentul în care trăim.

Danilo's was the kind of place where many drinking men come to hide, be it from their wives, in-laws, their jobs or life in general. it was where men and women can come to drink poison as if it was the only form of medicine available to remedy the migraine headache called life. The lighting dim and secluded, mostly covering the tables, counters and the door to the bathroom. The walls were decorated in decades of memories, favorite sports teams and other miscellaneous decor that was typical of small bars such as this one. It was too dark to tell what they were from a distance. There was a thick layer of smoke hovering in the air around the ceiling lights, the place was smothered in it but was strongest above everyone's heads. The smell was the classic stale bar odor of cigarettes and cheap cigars.

Darla shook her head, a small smirk on her lips. “You’re such a mom,” she told Katherine. Katherine stared at her, puzzled. “You’re a mom, too,” she said softly. “No, I gave birth. That doesn’t make me a mom. Not like you.” A look passed between the two women like none they had ever shared before. For a split second, Katherine felt a slight connection. “Well, you rest. I’ll check on you later.” She turned and left the room, a funny, unexplainable feeling inside her.

Darling, in this family we don't call anyone a novelist who has not written more books than Jane Austen.

Darkness crept through. Shadows pried at doors, teased dull edges of recollections that never quite took hold. Memories that would have shriveled under the blinding sun of daylight. And reason.

Dawn cackles as she guides me through the all-glass porch. Thinner, paler Reina shuffles about behind Dawn, watching as I slip my boots off. Although she tries to hide her hands, her fingers flicker nervously. I place my boots neatly on the floor of the porch beside the other pairs in the shadows under the coats. Music drifts through to us from a distant room – it’s the Beach Boys’ California Dreamin’. Dawn looks at me and I smile – they’ve put the record on for me. Dawn nods along happily. ‘Hear you’re a surfer boy!’ she says and she mimics riding a wave.

Day in and day out we learn to train and grow as Guardians. We do as we're told and follow the rules. We all work hard. Now it's our turn to watch some demons tremble in fear! It's our turn to watch the hunters become the hunted. Who's ready to see some fighting? Better yet, who wants to see what our great protector is made of?

DAYS ARE WEEKS AND WEEKS ARE DAYS INSIDE YOU

Dear God. Mommy is going through a really hard time. I see the way she's given up. I know you can change everything around for her. I just know it.

Dear, he do have a problem.

Dead. Supposedly Suicide. That's how they'll kill Michael too. Make it look like a suicide or an accident of some sort.

Dear Logan, Someday I'm going to write a book: How to Not Die in Alaska -- A Girl's Guide to Fashionable Survival.

Death is but a dream and life is merely the daydream of death.

Death. It was something I had to think about once. Weird, right? Strange that death was ever an inevitable end, but it wasn’t anymore. Not really. I eluded it. Tricked it. It was an odd concept—the world aged, moved forward, yet I . . . didn’t.

Death was a leech; no matter which side of the spectrum you were on, either dead or alive, it fed. It either acquired your soul or devoured all your joyful emotions.

De câte ori căutăm să fim mai buni decât suntem, totul în jurul nostru devine mai bun.

Defining moment in new telepathist's life, moment when intuitive individual learns most of society isn't telepathic, doesn't see auras,doesn't know what life on ethereal astral plane is like.

Despite how lonely or broken down you might feel, we need you with us helping to make the world better, kinder and safer, especially for the little girls coming up.

De pronto le pareció, que el amor erótico y el amor romántico, no era nada más que una forma o varias formas del ego. Por consiguiente, lo que había que hacer era dirigir el ego de uno mismo hacia destinatarios que no fuesen personas, o hacia personas de las que uno no esperase nada. El amor podia ser puro, pero sólo si no era egoista.

Derailed. In exile. Deeply ashamed, despised. Yet she had so little pride, she was grateful most days simply to be alive. There is Minimalist art; there are minimalist lives.

Demons exist,' he says simply, as if talking about the weather. 'They are real and they are dangerous. We hunt them when necessary and return them when we can.

Después del segundo rechazo, me reafirmé en mi decisión de no sentirme mal por él cuando me habló de "nuestra afinidad", fruto de "nuestra renegancia", mencionó nuestra relación sin que esta existiese, y entonces me di cuenta de que trataba mis desaires como si no lo fueran, como si de hecho contasen como primeras citas. En cuanto a sus modales de acosador y a lo seguro que estaba de nuestra relación y del futuro de nuestra unión, yo jamás habría imaginado que los perturbados, ilusos, obsesivos y amenazadores del mundo pudieran recuperarse al instante de ser perturbados, ilusos, obsesivos y amenazadores y dar marcha atrás como si se acabase el mundo hasta plantarse en la adulación y la oscuridad.

Despite the objection from his mother he had decided to visit a clinic with the woman. He knew, he would forever be obliged to her. He had found a job, but he could not keep it because of his addiction. He had no money. The woman paid the expenses. She introduced him to people who would understand his problem and help him deal with it. She made him join Sex Addicts Anonymous. She helped him deal with his urges. He had started to believe that sexual addiction was real. Suddenly, everything made sense. He was not a freak, he had a serious problem. He suffered from a disorder. He had the option to set things straight. He underwent Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, which he benefited from. A prostitute had set him free. - from story 109 of You Me & Stories

Dialogue is not just quotation. It is grimaces, pauses, adjustments of blouses, doodles on a napkin, and crossings of legs. When people communicate, they communicate with their faces, their bodies, their timing, and the objects around them. Make this a full conversation. Not just the words part.

dianemoorewriter.com February 11, 2015 · From Love Thy Neighbor" On journalism and news purists as well as why I pursued print instead of TV journalism/news at the No. 1 journalism school in the country: news reporters are willing to take risks "so that people can base their lives on a foundation of truth not lies. That's why I do it -- to be the one responsible voice in the crowd." Page 105' "Love Thy Neighbor

Di a tus amigos que soy el último de una raza agonizante. Único superviviente de un planeta moribundo. He venido a robar a todas las mujeres... a violar a todos los hombres... y a aprender cómo se baila el twist.

- Dicen por ahí que está usted a punto de abrir una librería. Eso significa que no le importa enfrentarse a cosas inverosímiles. (…) - ¿Por qué cree que abrir una librería es inverosímil? -le gritó al viento-. ¿La gente de Hardoborough no quiere comprar libros? - Han perdido el deseo por las cosas raras -dijo Raven mientras seguía limando-. Se venden más arenques ahumados, por ejemplo que truchas están medio ahumadas y tienen un sabor más delicado. Y no me diga usted que los libros no constituyen una rareza en si mismos.

Despite what you think you know, most people don't want to fight, especially when evenly matched. … That's why you see those pissed young men doing the dance of "don't hold me back" while desperately hoping someone likes them enough to hold them back.

Dialogue in fiction should be reserved for the culminating moments and regarded as the spray into which the great wave of narrative breaks in curving toward the watcher on the shore.

Did I love her? No. I obsessed over her completely. And thank heavens I was obsessed. Obsession, infatuation, is something short-lived. A sweet fever dream that leaves you exhausted from the high. Love is perpetual. Love is an entire world compared to that other form of mania people mistake love for. If love is loving the reality of a person, obsession is idealising the fantasy of another. Did I love her? No. Never. But I was utterly obsessed.

Did time move forward, through people, or did people move through it, like clouds across the sky?

Did you ever think much about jobs? I mean, some of the jobs people land in? You see a guy giving haircuts to dogs, or maybe going along the curb with a shovel, scooping up horse manure. And you think, now why is the silly bastard doing that? He looks fairly bright, about as bright as anyone else. Why the hell does he do that for living? You kind grin and look down your nose at him. You think he’s nuts, know what I mean, or he doesn’t have any ambition. And then you take a good look at yourself, and you stop wondering about the other guy… You’ve got all your hands and feet. Your health is okay, and you make a nice appearance, and ambition-man! You’ve got it. You’re young, I guess: you’d call thirty young, and you’re strong. You don’t have much education, but you’ve got more than plenty of other people who go to the top. And yet with all that, with all you’ve had to do with this is as far you’ve got And something tellys you, you’re not going much farther if any. And there is nothing to be done about it now, of course, but you can’t stop hoping. You can’t stop wondering… …Maybe you had too much ambition. Maybe that was the trouble. You couldn’t see yourself spending forty years moving from office boy to president. So you signed on with a circulation crew; you worked the magazines from one coast to another. And then you ran across a little brush deal-it sounded nice, anyway. And you worked that until you found something better, something that looked better. And you moved from that something to another something. Coffee-and-tea premiums, dinnerware, penny-a-day insurance, photo coupons, cemetery lots, hosiery, extract, and God knows what all. You begged for the charities, You bought the old gold. You went back to the magazines and the brushes and the coffee and tea. You made good money, a couple of hundred a week sometimes. But when you averaged it up, the good weeks with the bad, it wasn’t so good. Fifty or sixty a week, maybe seventy. More than you could make, probably, behind agas pump or a soda fountain. But you had to knock yourself out to do it, and you were standing stil. You were still there at the starting place. And you weren’t a kid any more. So you come to this town, and you see this ad. Man for outside sales and collections. Good deal for hard worker. And you think maybe this is it. This sounds like a right town. So you take the job, and you settle down in the town. And, of course, neither one of ‘em is right, they’re just like all the others. The job stinks. The town stinks. You stink. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. All you can do is go on like this other guys go on. The guy giving haircuts to dogs, and the guy sweeping up horse manute Hating it. Hating yourself. And hoping.

Dies iral, dies illa Solvet Saeclum in Favilla Teste David cum Silylla That Day of Wrath, that day of burning Seer and Sibly speak concerning All the world to ashes turning

¡Dios bendiga los tiempos antiguos, en que existían cosas raras...!

Dmitri’s nerves calmed as he walked through the hedgerow maze, easily finding his way to the centre, sitting awhile. He had walked the grounds three times, before he finally went into the graveyard, looking for Sveta’s grave. It was easy to find. Easier since he had been to it every night since her passing. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her, strawberry hair blowing in the afternoon autumn wind, face flushed with laughter, eyes sparkling. She’d been a plain girl too. But she’d loved him.

Does bad luck come in 3's...or is it multiples of 3?

Different versions of a true story

Does Carthage even have forests? Did Virgil know for sure or was it just convenient for his story? Virgil was a professional liar. This would not be the only place where he pruned the truth until it was as artificial as an espaliered pear tree against a wall, forced into an expedient shape and bearing the demanded fruit.