Best 1169 quotes in «novel quotes» category

Some people you meet and they're your friend for a day. Some you meet and you never really know at all. And then there are those who get caught inside your soul and stay there forever.

Some things are just like riding a bicycle; you jump on, pedal, and hope you don’t fall.

Sometimes a girl's gotta be bad to be good. Murder in the Dog Park

Sometime rhetoric was just another way to lie and impress persons, and he knew this

Sometimes he counts himself to sleep by imagining the miles between stars like the succession of footsteps cleaving him from his home, as if mastering the distance in thought might blunt the separation. But if a man cannot return to the place of his birth, then what is there to stay his restless feet? What center will hold him from wandering endlessly? It should not be so difficult, he thinks, to know one’s place in the order of things.

Sometimes, I can’t separate the reality from dream or illusion. Sometimes, I get so tired thinking about what if I’m not really here and all the good things happened in my life were just a mirage.” “I guess you feel it when you reach some sort of pleasure?” “True. I’m suffering from the fear of losing happiness. The fear that the moments of joy to be taken away from me and be replaced by a tragedy” “Cherophobia. That’s what it’s called.” She glanced at my face “Yeah. That’s what the shrink said” “I’ll cure your fear” “How?” “By eternal life

Sometimes I think it is my fate to live in the wreckage and confusion of crumbling houses.

Sometimes I still feel that there are two of me: one clean, flawless picture, the other imperfect and cracked; one boy, one girl; one voice that speaks aloud and one that whispers in my ear; one publicly known to have been troubled but be on the mend, the other who has privately lost something to do with innocence and gained something to do with knowledge and adulthood that can never be undone. I feel sometimes there are things that tear me in two directions, that there are two sets of thoughts that grow side by side. But then I realize that I am whole, whatever that means and does not mean; I am complete without the need for additions or alteration.

Sometimes it seems to me that everything I have is chronic. My whole life is a chronic condition.

Sometimes the changes are good. Sometimes you think they're good and you end up disappointed. Other times you think life has handed you a lemon and it turn out to be a diamond. And there are other times when it just is what it is. It's not what you wanted, but there's nothing you can do about it, so you just have to accept what's happened and go on

Sometimes surviving is all you can do

Sometimes there are moments in life that defy human reasoning; unique occurrences that simply cannot properly be resolved with the natural mind. So it’s only when one reaches further than themselves, and out into the unseen realm of faith, that life’s most miraculous moments can truly be discerned. For it is in these moments that God is making more known the reality of His existence; and more known to we who believe, the greatness of His power and love.

Sometimes things are just what they seem to be and that's all there is to it.

Sometimes when all feels lost, when there seem to be no other apparent options, letting loose anything as an unknown variable is the only way to alter the course of your history.

Sometimes you have to let go a little bit and travel the path of least resistance but this doesn’t mean that you quit when things get tough, as you are working towards a goal! It just means that you may only be able to see a rough draft of your final destination, right now, and that it’s safe to explore along the way.

Son todas líneas”, pensó y comenzó a ver a cada una de esas personas como una raya trazada sobre un hipotético mapa. Un gigantesco enredo de calles que se cruzaban, se rozaba, se unían y luego proseguían adelante. Allí afuera, en los caminos del mundo, había miles de millones de líneas, de recorridos de vida. Miles de millones de direcciones. Calles enfiladas, desviadas por azar, a veces interrumpidas bruscamente. Pensó que dos enamorados no eran más que dos recorridos a merced del azar. Podían dibujar los trayectos más absurdos en el mapamundi, dirigirse a cualquier parte y no encontrarse jamás. O bien cruzarse también varias veces y no reconocerse. Podían tomar el mismo autobús todas las mañanas, sin saber nada el uno del otro. Así hasta el fin de sus días, sin relacionarse. Pero bastaba muy poco: un intercambio de frases, incluso casual, y las líneas se abrían mágicamente unido. Dos grises trazos de un solitario recorrido se habrían convertido en una sola calle compartida.

Sore, hungry, and dehydrated, Naomi Robertson lay on a festering bed and opened her eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings. Her head throbbed and she struggled to focus, due to the intake of Rohypnol. She ran her dry tongue between the gap where her front teeth had once been. Slowly, she made out the interior of the huge-dilapidated brick building

So we will cover every possibility. We will take turns at the telescope. I will keep watch in the day, and at night you will take my place, and together we will see to it that no part of the sky goes unobserved.

Soy tan feliz, que a veces paréceme que vivo suspendida en el aire, que mis pies no tocan la tierra, que huelo la eternidad y respiro el airecillo que sopla más allá del sol. No duermo. ¡Ni qué falta me hace dormir!

Speak peace unto the world and good souls will stand.

Suae quisque fortunae faber est

Speak up and speak clearly. I want to hear what you have to say because it matters. Let's listen to each other and respect one another's opinions. Although, they may be different, wisdom allows us to be responsible for our own feelings and actions.

Such a distant, forgotten thing, this Light.

Taken together the Internet reads like the grandest character-driven novel humanity has ever known. Not much plot though.

Tak ada pilihan selain membicarakan kehadiranmu di tiap detik yang kupunya

Tako smo sjedili prilično dugo uz naš mangal i šutjeli. Opet sam osjetio kako je sreća jednostavna i prirodna stvar. A to je: čaša vina, jedan kesten, skromni mangal i šum morskih valova. Ništa drugo! Da bismo shvatili da je u tome sreća, potrebno je da budemo jednostavna i priprosta srca.

Tam let his hand drop to his neck and slowly circled his fingers around it. It was a free, gentle touch and Casen knew that if he asked him not to, he would remove his hand and nothing would change. He couldn't get the words out; it wasn't the touch he had a problem with, it was the far away look in Tam's eyes that said he wasn't in the room anymore. The look that suggested he was lying on the ground, as the rain fell in buckets and a stranger knelt over him, trying to keep him awake. Casen blinked and looked away, as the urge to cry for that lost look threatened.

Talking about ideas for a novel is a bit like showing pictures of the ultrasound if you're pregnant. Until they're out in the world, they can only be wonderful to you.

Talk to me. Say something, anything," he pleaded quietly as if he was trying to tame a wild animal. "There's nothing to say." He looked up and lowered his eyebrows on his eyes. "Why did you kiss me?

Tam let out a ragged breath, as he fought to reign his emotions back, while the realisation sank in. He was nothing. To Konnor. To Giovanni. To everyone. He was invisible.

Temperee, riante, (comme le sont celles d'automne dans la tres gracieuse ville de Buenos Aires) resplendissait la matinee de ce 28 avril: dix heures venait de sonner aux horloges et, a cet instant, eveillee, gesticulant sous le soleil matinal, la Grande Capitale du Sud etait un epi d'hommes qui se disputaient a grands cris la possession du jour et de la terre.

Tess passed by the Church’s sign, and then made the turn right. Her expectations for a degree of improvement were met with passed echoes of indecisive hand claps from mental bodied insecurities that infiltrated her subconscious with a disruptive applause in an attempt to divert her focus from the road of progression by putting it back on her publicized devastations.

Tam looked scared, swallowing and wrapping his hands around Casen's. He slowly cupped his wrists and pulled his hands away. Then he turned to the door and unlocked it. Casen expected to have it shut in his face or be told that he'd crossed a line. After all, he didn't know Tam and he'd stupidly given him an ultimatum after meeting just a few hours ago. What had he been thinking? “Are you coming in?” Tam asked quietly, staring at his hands as he twirled his key. Casen crossed the threshold and reminded himself he was lucky; he could so easily have been turned away. Yet, when he turned to apologise for presuming too much, Tam was right in front of him and the door was closed. Before he could ask what was running through his head, Tam cupped his face, lightly caressing his cheek. It was soft and tender, identical to the look in his eyes. It was too much; Casen closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, tentatively raising his own hand to hold Tam there. It wasn't a kiss, but it was damned close.

Te prometo mi amor y todo lo que poseo. Te prometo el primer bocado de mi carne y el primer sorbo de mi vino. A partir de este día solo tu nombre gritaré en la oscuridad de la noche, y por tus ojos sonreiré cada mañana; Yo seré un escudo para ti como tú eres el mío. No habrá entre nosotros ninguna palabra severa, ni ningún extraño oirá mi queja. Eres sangre de mi sangre y hueso de mi hueso. Te doy mi cuerpo para que podamos ser uno. Te doy mi espíritu para que podamos ser uno. Por encima de todo, te valoraré y te honraré, en esta vida y en la siguiente.

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.

The characters act for reasons that they can’t control and, as readers, we have to believe in their motivations, their sense of choice and in the reality of their suffering, even though, deep down, we know it’s all just puppetry on the part of the writer.

That’s where they found the skeletons. Right where you’re standing.

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

The average author hawks their books at many events. They are vigilant promoters, waiting for a breakthrough. They do this, or else watch their novel wither away.

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

The greatest redemption is between the war of two evils, their very retaliation reveals their goodly nature.

The crazed man, after he was satisfied, placed his hands around the throat of the helpless Irish girl and squeezed powerfully. He continued his attack, until he was certain Beverley was dead. He turned his back to the wall and masturbated, squealing in delight when he was done. He then composed himself, straightened his clothes, and ascended the steps. Hopefully, he thought, the tide would wash away the body before morning.

The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.

The ending is coming. I can feel it. I don’t know if I can take it this time. But then again, I say that every time and yet, every time I take it. And, I come back to her again for more. I will take whatever time I can get with her. I will do that for a lifetime. I will. I know that much about myself. She is my water. I can never get enough of her, and it appears that I will die trying to love her, to keep her, to hold her with me, even though our time together seems to evaporate so swiftly. It slips through our fingers so damn fast that we don’t even have time to savor it when we’re together.

The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on. He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. ("Novelty")

The great novels are deterrents. A Merck's manual on how not to live.

The heavens are too immense, too beautiful and varied, to fit into the mind of any one deity; the murmured creeds of fathers and sons are no match for the astronomer’s gasp.

The longest piece of literature I've read lately was a tattoo on this biker I picked up last night. It said, If you're this close, you've gotta suck it.

The "if I had time" lie is a convenient way to ignore the fact that novels require being written and that writing happens a sentence at a time. Sentences can happen in a moment. Enough stolen moments, enough stolen sentences, and a novel is born - without the luxury of time.

The Intellectual Transcending Equation In Life: Occurrence Plus Perception Minus Materialistic Reasoning Divided By Nothing Equals Spiritual Progression, With A Remainder Of Blessings.