Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

Taut, intelligent, and intense suspense that is deeply human.”—Mark Greaney, New York Times Bestselling Author of Gunmetal Gray “Exciting and well-layered....David Bell is a master storyteller with a sure hand at crafting characters you feel for and stories you relish.”—Allen Eskens, USA Today Bestselling Author of The Life We Bury “A tense and twisty suspense novel about the dark secrets that lie buried within a community and a father who can save his daughter only by uncovering them. Will leave parents wondering just how well they truly know their children.”—Hester Young, author of The Gates of Evangeline and The Shimmering Road “A gripping, immersive tour-de-force full of twists and turns. BRING HER HOME kept me flipping the pages late into the night. Don’t expect to sleep until you’ve finished reading this book. I could not put it down!”—A. J. Banner, bestselling author of The Good Neighbor and The Twilight Wife “In David Bell’s riveting BRING HER HOME, the unthinkable is only the beginning. From there, the story races through stunning twists all the way to its revelation, without letting its heart fall away in the action. Intense, emotional, and deeply satisfying. This one will keep you up late into the night. Don't miss it!”—Jamie Mason, author of Three Graves Full and Monday’s Lie “Spellbinding and pulse-raising, BRING HER HOME hooked me from the first sentence and surprised me until the final pages. Sharply written and richly observed, this book is about the secrets we keep, the mysteries that keep us, and the lengths a father will go to for the daughter he loves. David Bell is a masterful storyteller who has perfected the art of suspense in BRING HER HOME.”—Sarah Domet, author of The Guineveres

Tell a story in fewer and simpler words.

Tell me a story,' demanded Fireflyer. 'Why? Do you eat them, too, then?' 'Only the ohs and ayes and ees and oos. The Kays are too spikey and the zeds are too buzzzy and the ones with the dots get stuck in your teeth and the esses sometimes slide down inside your vest and tickle.

Thank God I don't love you!

Thanks to Dashiell Hammett. "He was thin, walked with a stick, and was the only private dick I knew who used the pockets of his sport coat. Maybe that means something, maybe not." Ramone Ramone, 2013

Thank you,” I whisper. Words I never thought I would say to her. They unsettle us both.” “You want to thank me, Barrow?” she mutters, kicking away the last of my bindings. “Then keep your word. And let this fucking place burn.” (300)

Thank you,” she said, tears leaking out of her eyes. “Thank you so much.” A gentle and hesitant hand came down on her back. “Don’t cry, Treasure. You’ll get me all wet and then I’ll melt. I’m made of sugar, don’t you know.” (Jack Dandy And Finley)

That is why fiction existed, as a way to look at the world without being broken by it.

That man has always lied, to himself and to others, is indisputable. He has lied for the sheer fun of it—the fun of exercising this astounding gift of being able to "say what is not so," creating by his word a world for which he alone is responsible. Also, he has lied in self-defense: the lie is a weapon. It is the preferred weapon of the underdog and the weakling.

That resplendent space created by a piece of fiction can really expand the width of time... Clearly there is a spot somewhere inside our heads they records that feelings we had when we read the book, and it stays with us forever.

That resplendent space created by a piece of fiction can really expand the width of time... Clearly there is a spot somewhere inside our heads that records the feelings we had when we read the book, and it stays with us forever

That's the thing about fiction, that you live in it totally for a little while, but you must forget it, sometimes totally forget it, in order to go about the rest of your day.

That's science fiction shit," "It's only fiction until science catches up.

That's sounds right. Another $5,000 went to dress up the Little League park where he had played so many games. Seems like he paid off the MORTAGE on his parents' home, which wasn't that much.

That's the fashion. Fast as the speed of light, they say. Ha! It's got no soul, sir, no heart.

That’s what we both hate about fiction, or at least crappy fiction—it purports to provide occasions for thinking through complex issues, but really it has predetermined the positions, stuffed a narrative full of false choices, and hooked you on them, rendering you less able to see out, to get out.

That's why literature is so fascinating. It's always up for interpretation, and could be a hundred different things to a hundred different people. It's never the same thing twice.

That's what scares me the most, Paul. That I'll just pass through life and all the people I know will just disappear, without a trace, without me ever telling them how much they mean to me, no matter how small the time spent was or how great the friendship was. That they'll be gone and they'll forget me and I'll end up with nothing." I saw in my head Charley laughing, Charley sticking his head out the window and screaming, Charley playing a video game so intensely he was a foot from the screen. Moments flashed before my eyes in a quick, unrelenting sequence. I shook my head. "I know. Believe me, I know.

That was a day that taught me the meaning of abject failure.

That’s what it means to be out of your mind. To let yourself be carried away by a dream. To give it room, let it grow wild and thick, until it overruns you.

That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I'm fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness - that's what makes me sad. Everyone's so scared to be happy.

That was a stupid idea I made up while drunk. Why did someone build that?

That was enough dialogue for a few pages - he had to get into some fast, red-hot action. There weren't any more hitches now. The story flowed like a torrent. The margin bell chimed almost staccato, the roller turned with almost piston-like continuity, the pages sprang up almost like blobs of batter from a pancake skillet. The beer kept rising in the glass and, contradictorily, steadily falling lower. The cigarettes gave up their ghosts, long thin gray ghosts, in a good cause; the mortality rate was terrible. His train of thought, the story's lifeline, beer-lubricated but no whit impeded, flashed and sputtered and coursed ahead like lightning in a topaz mist, and the loose fingers and hiccuping keys followed as fast as they could. ("The Penny-A-Worder")

That was another thing about boys: No one assumed the blew a gasket for any reason other than they were just really upset. They were allowed to just be, and nobody blamed where the moon was in its cycle, or whether or not they had the ill fortune of leaking from their privates. It was plain unfair.

That was when I saw their hate come out. They fought on the front lawn. Balloons and my birthday cake stood witness as I watched every regretful blow from my mother. I knew my sister was at war with my mother, but I never knew what her cruelty was capable of. My mother’s military was larger than Jayme’s. My mother already had my father, and she had her five children, including me.

That was the September I cut school six times in my first two weeks. I just couldn't do school anymore. Something inside wouldn't let me.

The address given to me by Greta was written in such a way that the words looked like numbers, and the numbers looked like the aftermath of a startled octopus meeting a deep-sea diver in a corner café. It was the worst writing I had ever seen.

The advice is a call to empathy, the ultimate act of the imagination, and the true ground of all fiction.

The Adventure called and I followed with my thumb like a character being written by an intractable author. Which, of course, I was.

The American girl isn't ANY girl; she's a remarkable specimen in a remarkable species.

The air between them began to settle into a silence. Awkward, yet softly exciting. Like an unexpected snow day.

The arrow's away and you're pulling the second before the first hits its mark

The art of fiction has not changed much since prehistoric times. The formula for telling a powerful story has remained the same: create a strong character, a person of great strengths, capable of deep emotions and decisive action. Give him a weakness. Set him in conflict with another powerful character -- or perhaps with nature. Let his exterior conflict be the mirror of the protagonist's own interior conflict, the clash of his desires, his own strength against his own weakness. And there you have a story. Whether it's Abraham offering his only son to God, or Paris bringing ruin to Troy over a woman, or Hamlet and Claudius playing their deadly game, Faust seeking the world's knowledge and power -- the stories that stand out in the minds of the reader are those whose characters are unforgettable. To show other worlds, to describe possible future societies and the problems lurking ahead, is not enough. The writer of science fiction must show how these worlds and these futures affect human beings. And something much more important: he must show how human beings can and do literally create these future worlds. For our future is largely in our own hands. It doesn't come blindly rolling out of the heavens; it is the joint product of the actions of billions of human beings. This is a point that's easily forgotten in the rush of headlines and the hectic badgering of everyday life. But it's a point that science fiction makes constantly: the future belongs to us -- whatever it is. We make it, our actions shape tomorrow. We have the brains and guts to build paradise (or at least try). Tragedy is when we fail, and the greatest crime of all is when we fail even to try. Thus science fiction stands as a bridge between science and art, between the engineers of technology and the poets of humanity.

The basis of English law is as simple as this: If you would know the future’s shape, look to the past.

The beautiful illusion of fiction is that everything makes sense and that there was a purpose, that there was a point to it all. And that's the best possible lie because it may even be true.

The best fiction is history

The beauty that withstands all. Stubborn in the harshest of atmospheres.

The beer gave Penn a headache immediately; she blinked like a mermaid struck by sunshine.

The best fiction is true.

The best fiction is truer than history

The best historical stories capture the modern imagination because they are, in many senses, still current - part of a continuum.

The best love is the one that makes you a better person, without changing you into someone other than yourself

THE BEST PLACES I HAVE BEEN TO ARE IN BOOKS.

The best part of the fiction in many novels is the notice that the characters are imaginary.

The best thing about writing fiction is that moment where the story catches fire and comes to life on the page, and suddenly it all makes sense and you know what it’s about and why you’re doing it and what these people are saying and doing, and you get to feel like both the creator and the audience. Everything is suddenly both obvious and surprising… and it’s magic and wonderful and strange.

The best of fiction, as we know, of course, doesn't tell the truth; it tales the truth.

The black bird cocked its head to one side, and then said, in a voice like stones being struck, 'You shadow man.' 'I'm Shadow,' said Shadow. The bird hopped up onto the fawn's rump, raised its head, ruffled its crown and neck feathers. It was enormous and its eyes were black beads. There was something intimidating about a bird that size, this close. 'Says he will see you in Kay-ro.' tokked the raven. Shadow wondered which of Odin's ravens this was: Huginn or Munnin, Memory or Thought. 'Kay-ro?' he asked. 'In Egypt.' 'How am I going to go to Egypt?' 'Follow Mississippi. Go south. Find Jackal.' 'Look,' said Shadow, 'I don't want to seem like I'm-- Jesus, look...' he paused. Regrouped. He was cold, standing in a wood, talking to a big black bird who was currently brunching on Bambi. 'Okay. What I'm trying to say is I don't want mysteries.' 'Mysteries,' agreed the bird helpfully. 'What I want is explanations. Jackal in Kay-ro. This does not help me. It's a line from a bad spy thriller.

the bleakest situations bring out the hospitality in all of us, but it's during the harshest we find out how strong we really are.

The blind faith in some half-assed conspiracy theories lines up with the logic of having to believe in something with no questions asked. It gives us peace and comfort. As simple as I was, I found that resorting to this absolute nonsense was the root of all our problems. It was a road of willingly-learned helplessness, for no action could make a difference, thereby no action was needed.

The book was blunt and had an honesty about it, whereas the movie was just a beautiful lie.