Best 1169 quotes in «novel quotes» category

Mi mancherai moltissimo, ma chi ha le ali non è fatto per stare chiuso in gabbia, Se lo ami devi lasciarlo libero di voltare.

Misunderstanding and distrust—the predominant elements of a novel. Without them, everyone lives happily from beginning.

Monk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the Murder, She Wrote novel he bought in Mill Valley. I can't say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn't feel safe there. I'm surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.

My mother clutches at the collar of my shirt. I rub her back and feel her tears on my neck. It's been decades since our bodies have been this close. It's an odd sensation, like a torn ligament knitting itself back, lumpy and imperfect, usable as long as we know not to push it too hard.

My vengeance was of a different kind. It bore no offense and no ill towards injustice. It had no emotion. Blood and Death. That's all it was." - Celeste- ALL LIGHT WILL FALL

Never once did I think you were less than a good person.

Non capisco, cos'è che vi preoccupa tanto?» «Tutto, quando si tratta di voi: il parto, l'odio che provate per Charles, il pensiero che possiate non amarmi mai. Mi fate regredire. Mi fate dimenticare il coraggio. Quando sto con voi divento ciò che di più lontano esiste dall'essere un uomo.

No one ended up there by mistake and no one stayed there unless they had no other options.

No podría ser feliz con un hombre cuyo gusto no coincidiera en todo momento con el mío. Tendría que participar en todos mis sentimientos. Los mismos libros, la misma música habría de hechizarnos a los dos.

Nothing good in this world comes free! For everything there’s a payment of time or money or soul!

Novel-writing has in one respect an affinity to the drama—that time and distance are required to soften for use the harsher features that may be exhibited from real life; that it was almost impossible to bring forward events without touching on their causes; and that any tendency to political discussion, however liberal or applicable, was not to be tolerated in a sort of work which people took up with no other design than to be amused at the least possible expence of thought.

Novel research leads to redefining the subject.

Nowadays people talk about the things he did as though they made sense. As though even his most disastrous mistakes were only the result of bad luck or hubris.

Now call your old lady and tell her to come out here. Go ahead and don't try no funny stuff.

Most people surrendered fairy tale hopes in exchange for cookie cutter lives

Muka bumi ini semuanya dihamparkan oleh Allah sebagai masjid.

My blackness is spreading, Alice. I’ve been seeing and hearing things that can’t be there or anywhere. At night, when I’m not hallucinating mad women, I can feel depression starting to burn me around the edges. If I sink into it, I’ll have to give this thing up and write a novel.

My breath is halted, like grasping for air after crying far too long and hard. It is like a hiccup, with a shivering sharpness of nerves. It is like icicles running down your spine or aluminum in your mouth, an eerie amount of emotions that cannot compare to the actual feelings you’ve managed to live through. I just watched you die, I say to myself silently.

My Friends I Will Always Remember, And My Enemies I Will Never Forget!

My Greatest Failures has been My Greatest Success~

My Name Is Latif Mercado, And I Am... A Workaholic!

My own heart is in my characters. My novels are my memories; they are the best part of me.

Nahum bobbed again. 'My crest is cropped by croaking cranes. I go to drown in doleful dumps, dead-drunk with drearihead.

Najviše volim sasvim čista, laka, skromna seljačka vina, bez naročitog imena, kojih može mnogo da se popije i čiji okus tako prijatno i svesrdno podsjeća na selo, na zemlju, na nebo i lugove.

Ne treba žaliti ni za čim što je prošlo. Žaliti treba za Sada i Danas, za svim onim nebrojenim danima koje sam izgubio, koji su mi protekli ne donjevši mi ni darove, ni uzbuđenja.

Nezavisnost je hladna, oh da, ali je i spokojna, čudesno spokojna i prostrana kao onaj hladni i tihi prostor u kome se okreću zvijezde.

Nggak perlu khawatir dia selingkuh. Salaman sama perempuan lain aja dia nggak mau - Sekar

Njen miris, čitavo njeno biće bili su u znaku leta i ruža.

Ništa nije tvoje vlastito osim nekoliko kubičnih centimetara u tvojoj lubanji.

No matter how much restitution she paid with every word and deed, her blood-stained hands could never really be clean, even if no one else knew they were dirty.

No peace is possible between the novelist and the agélaste [those who do not laugh]. Never having heard God's laughter, the agélastes are convinced that the truth is obvious, that all men necessarily think the same thing, and that they themselves are exactly what they think they are. But it is precisely in losing the certainty of truth and the unanimous agreement of others that man becomes an individual. The novel is the imaginary paradise of individuals. It is the territory where no one possesses the truth, neither Anna nor Karenin, but where everyone has the right to be understood, both Anna and Karenin.

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

Nothing felt better to him than the act of waiting for her. As long as he believed it wasn’t in vain, he was able to justify his presence.

Nothing in heaven or earth is content to be alone, and so there must always be something more. The universe is governed by a principle no more complicated than this: that a solitary body will forever attract another to itself.

Oh, how scary and wonderful it is that words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Oh, teško je naići na trag Božji usred života kakav mi vodimo, usred ovog tako zadovoljnog, tako izrazito građanskog vremena, bez ikakvog duha, s pogledom na ovakvu arhitekturu, ovakve poslove i ovakve ljude.

O' melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.

On August 11th, 2010, NOAA gave permission for the US Navy to continue their training, which included mid and high-frequency sonar and the use of explosives, thus ignoring the devastating impact on marine life. They attempted to justify their actions by claiming sonar exposure is merely a matter of annoyance to whale and dolphins.

Once I was King of the Titans. Now I need a MedicAlert bracelet and a subscription to the Safe Return program. Can you put out a Silver Alert on a god? I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.

Once we were inside the walls of Rahway Prison the mood changed. We were patted down for weapons and given a tour. They showed us how to make improvised weapons that people would hide in their ass. The guards pointed out the young guys who had become someone’s bitch.” Excerpt From: Life of a Bastard Vol. 1 By Damien Black

Once you break someone’s heart, you are forever its master.

One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius' crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their out-reaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.

One of the things about writing that inspires--and impresses me, is the music words can make. And, like music, the spaces between the notes can mean as much as the notes themselves. -- The Jesus Horse

On his life between 1926-1927: "like a bad Russian novel

On occasion we stumble upon what seems to be a truth. Compared to the surrounding blackness, it sparkles and dazzles our eyes. But are these actually truths? Are our eyes really feasting upon light? Or just patches of grey?

On my website there's a quote from the writer Anthony Burgess: "The greatest gift is the passion for reading. It is cheap, it consoles, it distracts, it excites, it gives you knowledge of the world and experience of a wide kind." I've always found that inspiring because the written word, as an art form, is unlike any other: movies, TV, music, they're shared experiences, but books aren't like that. The relationship between a writer and a reader is utterly unique to those two individuals. The world that forms in your head as you read a book will be slightly different to that experienced by every other reader. Anywhere. Ever. Reading is very personal, a communication from one mind to another, something which can't be exactly copied, or replicated, or directly shared. If I read the work of, say, one of the great Victorian novelists, it's like a gift from the past, a momentary connection to another's thoughts. Their ideas are down on paper, to be picked up by me, over a century later. Writers can speak individually to readers across a year, or ten years, or a thousand. That's why I love books.

On occasion he would think back to the fiercest passion it had been his pleasure to experience and reflect on what might have been. He would look upon the woman who occupied the opposite half of his bed and feel his life had not quite lived up to the promise of another day. These moments would be mercifully brief, or so he hoped.

Our books are the deepest glimpses into our souls, the most raw and real anybody will ever find us.

Out in the field, any connection with home just makes you weaker. It reminds you that you were once civilized, soft; and that can get you killed faster than a bullet through the head.

Outside of the dreary rubbish that is churned out by god knows how many hacks of varying degrees of talent, the novel is, it seems to me, a very special and rarefied kind of literary form, and was, for a brief moment only, wide-ranging in its sociocultural influence. For the most part, it has always been an acquired taste and it asks a good deal from its audience. Our great contemporary problem is in separating that which is really serious from that which is either frivolously and fashionably "radical" and that which is a kind of literary analogy to the Letterman show. It's not that there is pop culture around, it's that so few people can see the difference between it and high culture, if you will. Morton Feldman is not Stephen Sondheim. The latter is a wonderful what-he-is, but he is not what-he-is-not. To pretend that he is is to insult Feldman and embarrass Sondheim, to enact a process of homogenization that is something like pretending that David Mamet, say, breathes the same air as Samuel Beckett. People used to understand that there is, at any given time, a handful of superb writers or painters or whatever--and then there are all the rest. Nothing wrong with that. But it now makes people very uncomfortable, very edgy, as if the very idea of a Matisse or a Charles Ives or a Thelonious Monk is an affront to the notion of "ain't everything just great!" We have the spectacle of perfectly nice, respectable, harmless writers, etc., being accorded the status of important artists...Essentially the serious novelist should do what s/he can do and simply forgo the idea of a substantial audience.