Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

To embellish reality with makeup, with silk and royal purple, isn’t that what we all should be doing? Beneath the life we live every day the silk and the purple are hiding, waiting for us. A person just has to dare to throw off his everyday clothes, to rip them off and to put on the silk and purple that exist, I know it. But we’re the ones who cover them up. Out of boredom, indifference, fear. Mostly fear. So right from the first moment I met you, my lies were always the truth: in telling them I unveiled the world for you — the hidden world, the true world. You were really the one who lied. You wanted everything to remain untouched, paradise to be paradise, and me angel. But you made a fatal mistake: you never believed me. You never understood why I lied, that through my lies I was giving you a unique gift: the truth. You always tried to control me — out of love, of course. But is there any word more ambiguous than the word “love”?

To feel stirring within you the wonderful and melancholy play of strange forces and to be aware that those others you yearn for are blithely inaccessible to all that moves you―what a pain is this! And yet! He stood there aloof and alone, staring hopelessly at a drawn blind and making, in his distraction, as though he could look out. But yet he was happy. For he lived. His heart was full...

Together, we travel the living river. We turn our faces to the sunlight and fly time and time again home to Kingdom Arcadia.

To get girls he had figured out that all you had to do was talk little, the bare minimum, and listen much, without ever passing judgment. [Mister Gregory]

To give herself a measure of credible autonomy, she had decided to invent a husband. Then, in a subsequent flash of inspiration, she had just as quickly killed him off.

To have reservations is to show true leadership. To have certainty without question, to lead people to battle with no qualms, or to prosecute without hesitation are qualities of a tyrant.

To keep up with the times these days, it seems you have to be a little bit demented. — “William F. Kinderman”.

To love, to live, to feel so much that your world keeps spinning, faster and faster, in that wonderful, chaotic mess of humanity that you’d so hastily give up. Immortality is overrated. It is nothing but the ability to live through it all and not experience a single thing, to eat everything without tasting it at all." Isak’s eyes shone with a desperate need. He wanted, more than anything it seemed, to be like me, when all I wanted was to be like him.

To me, the best, if not the only function of imaginative writing, is to lead the human imagination outward, to take it into the vast external cosmos, and away from all that introversion and introspection, that morbidly exaggerated prying into one's own vitals—and the vitals of others—which Robinson Jeffers has so aptly symbolized as "incest." What we need is less "human interest," in the narrow sense of the term—not more. Physiological—and even psychological analysis—can be largely left to the writers of scientific monographs on such themes. Fiction, as I see it, is not the place for that sort of grubbing.

Tomorrow morning the mindless noise in my head was going to resume, which meant facing the glaring reality that law enforcement wasn't suicide but came mighty close.

Tonight let's slay some dragons.

Too many words for one book--truth might be stranger than fiction, but it needs a better editor.

To see someone you love in so much pain—especially emotional pain that can’t be remedied—was the worst form of torture.

To treat fiction as if it were a religious or moral sermon is about as far from the actuality of literature as it is possible to get and indeed it is, in my opinion, the purest form of intellectual barbarism.

...to use the little kick of energy which opposition supplies to be more vigorously oneself.

To understand what's happening in the U.S. presidential election of 2016, you need to know what's going on in the year 2024! Soundscape: Where hearing is believing.

To write your dreams of fantasy, is to create fantasy in another's dreams

To write you dreams of fantasy, is to create fantasy in another's dreams.

To write is to reveal oneself. When I write something, fiction or non-fiction, I do not expect you to accept what I write, nor to agree with what I propose. I expect you to spend at least a tenth of a second to think about it - may be not about the characters, nor about the piece, but at least about the idea.

Tragedy often gives birth to courage, it offers man a platform to change what will be." Eli Storm, Emanuel Stone And The Phoenix Shadow

Tra quei libri polverosi e quei leggii capimmo quanto eravamo fatti l'uno per l'altra. Erano sufficienti uno sguardo, un sorriso, una carezza per capirsi.

Traveling leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.

Treat backstory like a pungent spice. I say this to encourage you to picture a jalapeno pepper that can set your mouth on fire, every time you even think about adding backstory into your book. What you need is subtlety.

Truth be told, I liked that blurriness. That line where reality and fiction jutted up against each other.

Truth is stranger than fiction because lies are much more convincing but the truth always comes out no matter how long it takes.

...truth is not in what happens but in what it tells us about who we are

Truths are dangerous," he said. "Then why are you writing them in a book?" "To catch them between the pages," said Teddy, "and trap them before they disappear.

Truth in her dress finds facts too tight. In fiction she moves with ease.

tujhe toh vakil banna chahiye, bas behes karti rehti hai

Turn those deep feelings and obsessions of your heart into captivating pieces of literature.

Tutto questo mentre stavano imparando l'unica lezione della vita: che nella vita di un individuo accadono più incidenti di quanto un uomo possa ammettere, se non vuole correre il rischio di impazzire.

Turn on Your Inner Light and Illuminate the World

Turn it," Thomas said, without smiling. "Play it again.

Under fun’s new administration, writing fiction becomes a way to go deep inside yourself and illuminate precisely the stuff you don’t want to see or let anyone else see, and this stuff usually turns out (paradoxically) to be precisely the stuff all writers and readers share and respond to, feel. Fiction becomes a weird way to countenance yourself and to tell the truth instead of being a way to escape yourself or to present yourself in a way you figure you will be maximally likable. This process is complicated and confusing and scary, and also hard work, but it turns out to be the best fun there is. The fact that you can now sustain the fun of writing only by confronting the very same unfun parts of yourself you’d first used writing to avoid or disguise is another paradox, but this one isn’t any kind of bind at all. What it is is a gift, a kind of miracle, and compared to it the reward of strangers’ affection is as dust, lint.

Until recently, I was an ebook sceptic, see; one of those people who harrumphs about the “physical pleasure of turning actual pages” and how ebook will “never replace the real thing”. Then I was given a Kindle as a present. That shut me up. Stock complaints about the inherent pleasure of ye olde format are bandied about whenever some new upstart invention comes along. Each moan is nothing more than a little foetus of nostalgia jerking in your gut. First they said CDs were no match for vinyl. Then they said MP3s were no match for CDs. Now they say streaming music services are no match for MP3s. They’re only happy looking in the rear-view mirror.

Underwater, bubbles erupted before my eyes as a swift hand snatched my arm and pulled me to the surface. I gasped for air, coughing and gagging at the amount of water I sucked into my lungs by pure shock. What was up with me and breathing in water? I needed to grow some gills or something.

Unlike your mother," she said, exhaling, "I told the culprit immediately. I thought at the very least he would visit me in the hospital after it was all done, but the son of a bitch sent me a get well card. Can you imagine? Serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.

Upon reaching the preserve, everyone knew that the explanation of this incident was dreadfully imminent. With parents already on edge, the looming task of crafting a story out of thin air was one that was not only sickening, but would place a larger wedge between father and son.

Unfortunately, our minds are our greatest assets, and our biggest flaws.

Veiled women were often found begging on the streets. Street hustlers made a living by pickpocketing. There was poverty around where some people could kill each other for bread, there were orphanages that were abundant, where young boys and girls were sold off to their novice masters, for imposed drudgery, that would continue for a major part of their lives.

Valerik spit to one side. "We laugh at religion's brand of love, forms and rules that keep the poor feeding from the church's coffers. It is in deed." "I agree. That kind of love is porcelain-coated balls of dung. But what of true affection?...

Vane grabbed me. “DuLac, let’s chat.” Chat. British-speak for “Stand still while I yell at you.

Vincent knew he was dying. A horrendous fever overwhelmed him with intolerable pain throughout many sleepless hours. It came as a result of a malaria epidemic that erupted in his hometown during early nineteenth century Europe. The disease spread so fast, physicians had to ration their stocks of quinine only to use it on patients who weren’t declared “hopeless”. Vincent was one of the unlucky ones. Speculating his time on Earth may be short, he requested spiritual guidance, even if he wasn’t a faithful man, nor did he believe in forgiveness. He appealed to the Church as a “just in case” like many other petrified atheists.

Violence can read like poetry. You just have to describe the act as if you’re in love with the way your characters bleed.

Violet smiled up at Nikolai. "I'm so very glad you came to Riversleigh." Nikolai looked serious as he thought for a moment. "You know what, myshka? I'm very glad too. The old world and the old ways are dying. I think the new world and the new ways are filled with endless possibilities.

Wainscott, Deepspace Operations Group,’ said the man. ‘Wasn’t here, don’t exist, pleased to meet you.

Vane’s lips tightened to suppress a smile. “Why so hostile, love?” “You whacked me on the head with a ball!” “You deserved it.

Virginia screamed, grabbing for the door handle and nearly throwing herself from the moving car. James swerved to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes before she killed herself trying to escape. As it was, she flung herself from the car, falling to her knees and scrambling to her feet. Then she ran. Took off like a bolt until she rounded the bend and disappeared from view. 'Way to go, slick,' AJ said snarkily, climbing into the front seat. 'You ran her off.

„Visele oamenilor au oase de sticlă, atât de fragile, încât adeseori nici înşişi visătorii nu au curajul să şi le pipăie, atât de transparente, încât, atunci când le visezi, nu pe ele le vezi, ci doar pe tine prin ele. Dar hultanii, cei consacraţi şi cei în devenire, reuşesc întotdeauna să prăduiască visele altora. Le dau obsesiv târcoale, nu pentru că i-ar interesa cum arată scheletul transparent al viselor, nici pentru că, atunci când rămân singure, visele se aprind şi îşi strigă pe nume stăpânii rătăciţi, nici măcar dintr-o poftă sadică, fiindcă le-ar plăcea sunetul cristalin al osului de vis fărâmat, ci, pur şi simplu, pentru că orice carieră de hultan are nevoie de o cauză fondatoare. Chiar dacă n-au învăţat-o nicăieri – n-am auzit să existe vreo şcoală care dă doctorate în hultanism, asta e mai degrabă o vocaţie, hultanul e artist în felul lui – ei ştiu din instinct că la fundaţia oricărei opere din lumea noastră, fie şi a uneia mediocre, trebuie să îngropi un vis.

Walking the plank is a Victorian fiction, and I will not have it on my ship!