Best 4069 quotes in «fiction quotes» category

His eyes go wide while a gasp of wonder passes his lips. He turns his body fully toward us. His lips moving like a fish out of water, gasping for breath. He gives his head a shake and stutters out, “Mer—mermaids. There are fish with women’s bodies or—women with fish bodies sitting upon the rocks. I—I never knew...

His deadpan expression turned bitter with a curl of his lip. “Save your sermon for some other sap. Nobody shares money—not even dead people. Why do you think they invented wills and trust funds?

His hands on my waist he gently pulled me n embrace. I could feel his breath on my face our lips were about to meet when the bell rang.

His real name is A.J., but he is known in Heaven as Armor because of how resilient he is in his faith and how persistent he is with his prayers.

His lips found her throat, teeth grazing across the vein that was pounding just above her collarbone. The combined sensations were driving her a little crazy with need. She needed him, all of him that she could get, and she intended to make the best of the time they had together.

History for the most part is just bad fiction.

His smile is beautiful. It's the kind of smile that can take away all nervousness and tension in a room, no matter how big. I have no choice but to smile back.

History is indeed stranger than fiction. The twists and turns of human history are too outlandish for to be believable in any work of fiction.

histories of the world before our own. That was a world of empires, of corruption, of war-and more freedom than I've ever known. But the people of that time are gone, their dreams in ruin, existing only in smoke and ash.

History has a way of chasing gravity just like water, feeding into other parts of itself to become something else, something larger and grander, until the one pure thing it was no longer exists.

His wife had also studied art in her hometown, and she could paint, but depending on such work for her livelihood was just not possible. As far as appearances went, she was definitely a real beauty. When she was young, she looked a little like Gong Li, but now that she was middle-aged, she had put on weight and gradually taken on more of a bell-shaped look, resembling Li Siqin. But no matter what, a wife always looks better than her balding, broadbellied husband.

History is written by the survivors.

Honor is for the living. Dead is dead.

Ho scoperto una cosa inestimabile in questo viaggio durato un anno intero, cioè che ognuno di noi nasce con un destino: salvare una persona, almeno una. È l’unico dettaglio già scritto della nostra esistenza ed è un compito inconscio. A volte non ce ne rendiamo nemmeno conto. Non sappiamo calcolare quanto sia determinante essere lì in quel momento per qualcuno, non ne capiamo l’importanza. Quel qualcuno, però, non ci scorderà mai. Non dimenticherà che lo abbiamo afferrato, aspettato, ascoltato. Comunque andrà la mia vita, so che mi ricorderò di Dario e Lore. Per sempre. Loro sono la colata d’oro massiccio che ha messo insieme tutti i miei frantumi.

How can even the idea of rebellion against corporate culture stay meaningful when Chrysler Inc. advertises trucks by invoking “The Dodge Rebellion”? How is one to be bona fide iconoclast when Burger King sells onion rings with “Sometimes You Gotta Break the Rules”? How can an Image-Fiction writer hope to make people more critical of televisual culture by parodying television as a self-serving commercial enterprise when Pepsi and Subaru and FedEx parodies of self-serving commercials are already doing big business? It’s almost a history lesson: I’m starting to see just why turn-of-the-century Americans’ biggest fear was of anarchist and anarchy. For if anarchy actually wins, if rulelessness become the rule, then protest and change become not just impossible but incoherent. It’d be like casting a ballot for Stalin: you are voting for an end to all voting.

How can she explain to him that every tear takes her further and further away from the box of razors that lies between them. How can she explain that she is terrified of such a thing happening. That although she thought she wanted freedom from her implements, she doesn't know if she can handle what she's experiencing now. That she wants to know that she is still in charge of her grief. That her blades have always done her bidding.

How can you be kissing at a time like this? Have you no respect for the dead?

How charming. The king and his little princess knocking on my covens door.” Ursula sighed dramatically. “What do you insolent merfolks want with me now? I swear I haven’t eaten any of your children.” -Ursula

How come when mortals want things, their only option is to make a deal with Hell and sell their soul? Why can’t they make deals with God in exchange for good behavior?" It was another of those rare moments when I’d surprised Carter. I waited for the glib answer I’d mentioned to Seth, something along the lines of goodness being its own reward. The angel considered for several seconds. "Humans make those deals all the time," he said finally. "They just don’t make them with God." "Then who are they making them with?" I exclaimed. "Themselves.

How can you do sin with hands you used for prayers?

How did I end up in this situation? I'm the district sales manager of a napkin factor. Why is my daughter in space?

How does evil arise? Where does it come from? We think of malevolent men-— murderers, rapists, tyrants—and somehow believe they are different creatures from us. They are not. All evil men were once innocent babes, once lovable children. Men make choices, some consistently bad. But those who choose the worst kinds of evil were typically guided into it.

How do you know I’m any different from the broken, beaten slave you found over seven years ago? - Corin

How did you get so scratched up then, Emlynn?” He looked at me uncertainly again. I felt wildly like laughing. Too many swooping highs and plummeting lows. What a weird few days. Weird being a massive understatement. “Cr-Crawling through gorse bushes.” I took a perverse delight in answering his questions in a way that told him nothing at all. I’d never paid much attention to boys before. Maybe Grace was onto something after all. “Crawling through gorse,” he repeated. “Part of your action-girl antics, no doubt?” “N-no doubt.” I smirked again.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

How long can I mold my identity in the changing world around me? Sometimes, I feel that I am a refugee in exile whose life has been smashed into pieces by many ill facets of ghastly wars.

How is it possible you have caught me off guard, he seemed to ask. Exactly where have I miscalculated the velocities, how have I misjudged the vectors?

How often do you ignore a dream, dismiss it as fantasy and then see echoes of the dream around you the following day? What if a dream were the forewarning of what will become your reality; if you are being told within the world of a dream what may occur in the near or distant future, but your mind mangles the truth and information so much that you discard it as fiction?

How scary and sudden the shift from Living to Dead.

How talented was death. How many expressions and manipulations of hand, face, body, no two alike. They stood like the naked pipes of a vast derelict calliope, their mouths cut into frantic vents. And now the great hand of mania descended upon one hundred-throated, unending scream.

How ya doing?” Gabby’s face came into view, and she grinned down at me. She’d stopped doing her healing thing, and the pain rushed in. “I’m just peachy,” I quipped, throat scratchy. “Only hurts when I breathe or blink or exist, if I’m being honest.

How would I feel about hearing that the plague killed another nearby village a month later? Didn’t I tell you stupidity is the eighth sin? Excerpt From: Cameron Jace. “.

Huh. Well you and I just disagree. Maybe the world just feels differently to us. This is all going back to something that isn't really clear: that avant-garde stuff is hard to read. I'm not defending it, I'm saying that stuff - this is gonna get very abstract - but there's a certain set of magical stuff that fiction can do for us. There's maybe thirteen things, of which who even knows which ones we can talk about. But one of them has to do with the sense of, the sense of capturing, capturing what the world feels like to us, in the sort of way that I think that a reader can tell "Another sensibility like mine exists." Something else feels this way to someone else. So that the reader feels less lonely.

Human experience is not nest and orderly, ready to be coded into predetermined categories. Real life is messy

Human beings are born of blood, bound by gravity, eventually to perish... fallible by design... destined.

How you spend your time when you are not working or studying says everything about who you are and what is motivating your life.

Humans have this remarkable ability to know and not to know at the same time. Or more correctly, they can know something when they really think about it, but most of the time they don’t think about it, so they don’t know it. If you really focus, you realise that money is fiction. But usually you don’t focus. If you are asked about it, you know that football is a human invention. But in the heat of the match, nobody asks you about it. If you devote the time and energy, you can discover that nations are elaborate yarns. But in the midst of a war you don’t have the time and energy. If you demand the ultimate truth, you realise that the story of Adam and Eve is a myth. But how often do you demand the ultimate truth?

I am afraid I am going to drift into fiction, truthful but incomplete, for lack of some details which I cannot conjure up today and which might have enlightened us. This morning, the idea of the egg came again to my mind and I thought that I could use it as a crystal to look at Madrid in those days of July and August 1940—for why should it not enclose my own experiences as well as the past and future history of the Universe? The egg is the macrocosm and the microcosm, the dividing line between the Big and the Small which makes it impossible to see the whole. To possess a telescope without its other essential half—the microscope—seems to me a symbol of the darkest incomprehension. The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope.

I actually felt awed by the remote possibilities of the person you liked ever liking you back a corresponding amount.

I always win.

I am a spinner of yarns; hopefully to transport the reader or listener to places I see in my minds eye.

I am a storyteller, not a historian, and it's my ambition to create something compelling - something unputdownable and riveting - that chimes with the real history but is, in fact, fiction.

I am convinced that if stories such as these have any lasting value, it is in revealing the kind of work young pulp-writers were doing in those days when rates were low and one had to make a typewriter smoke in order to keep eating.

I am glad you are happy--but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed page, they never really happen to you in life.

I am going to show you great and mighty things which no one has ever seen before.... I am going to take you places where no one has ever been. I am going to take you to heights where no one has ever reached. If you will only come to me with all your heart, I will do a mighty work in you, which no man can undo but yourself.

Humph! A text message that said, ‘What’s up, sexy?’ You call that setting a mood? Love making takes place long before the bedroom—

I always thought of the stars like a handful of gems that God randomly tossed across the sky, saying, 'Here, go wherever you please.

I am a knight riding from tower to tower seeking a princess to rescue but all the dragons are slain, the towers are empty and the princesses taken.

I am also an author. Please check out my novel, A Life Worth Dreaming About.

I am death; I am this blood, these ravaged lands, and this wanton destruction. – Panchali Draupadi