Best 222 quotes in «witchcraft quotes» category

Magic is a funny term,' she'd say. 'There is nothing supernatural about the earth. As long as you know what does what.

I’m not trying to fix you. I don’t think you’re broken.”- Damian (Marked Book #1) page 266

Is it wrong to protect your heart?”- Marc (Marked Book #1) page 130

Intuition. Follow your gut and your moral compass about what is right and what is not. Just because you’ve made mistakes doesn’t mean you’re “evil,” and just because you’ve done something for someone else doesn’t mean you’re “good.” Try to throw those labels out. It all comes down to trusting yourself and thinking through actions and consequences.

It is death that gives life its meaning.

It is a mother's duty to teach her daughters about the uses of blood, particularly a magical daughter.

It's Coke, my man. You really think I'm going to let you pour any more alcohol into your body tonight?

It is funny,’ she said, ‘That even after all this time, you still believe you should be rewarded, just because you have been obedient. I thought you would have learned that lesson in your father’s halls. None shrank and simpered as you did, and yet the great Helios stepped on you all the faster, because you were already crouched at his feet.’ She was leaning forward, her golden hair loose, embroidering the sheets around her. ‘Let me tell you the truth about Helios and all the rest. They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. The only thing that makes them listen is power.

It's normal for witches your age to attempt big, messy magic and have it go wrong. That's why it's best to practise in a group.

It was not hard to believe a beautiful woman capable of murder, Margret thought.As it says in the sagas, Opt er flago i fogru skinni. A witch often has fair skin.

It's witchcraft with all the crusts cut off, and real witchcraft is ALL crusts.

Magick happens when you step into who you truly are and embrace that which fulfills your soul.

I was a golden witch, who had no past at all.

Little by little I began to listen better: to the sap moving in the plants, to the blood in my veins. I learned to understand my own intention, to prune and to add, to feel where the power gathered and speak the right words to draw it to its height. That was the moment I lived for, when it all came clear at last and the spell could sing with its pure note, for me and me alone.

Lydia had been fantasizing about him to the point she nearly drove him insane with it. It had taken four days for his energy to weaken inside her enough that he could go and visit her without fear she would throw him across the town in a gust of wind, and thus cause a scene. Although, getting run out of town after one day would be a new MacGregor record.

Magick need not be a crutch, but it is hard to argue that anything you lean on in lieu of building your own strength weakens resolve.

Magic is magic. It isn’t good or bad in and of itself. It’s the intent that matters. Ideally, you treat magic as a gift and you use it to influence natural forces to help and to heal. It’s a positive act.

I wash away negativity, opening myself up to light and love and all things good and beneficial.

Ly-di-ah! I sit beneath your window, laaaass, singing ’cause I loooove your a—” “For the love of St. Francis of Assisi, someone call a vet. There is an injured animal screaming in pain outside,” Charlotte interrupted the flow of music in ill-humor.

...magic practice makes use of the associations we are already familiar with, but it uses them to achieve an intention.

Magic was all fun and games until you had the H-bomb of spell materials on the bottom of your shoes.

Magick is not just something you do. Magick is something you ARE.

May your glass always be full, may there always be a roof over your head, and may you dirty sinners be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead.

Miles away, down through an opening in the hills, he could catch glimpses of a road where motor-cars sometimes passed, and yet here, so removed from the arteries of the latest civilization, was a bat-haunted old homestead, where something unmistakably like witchcraft seemed to hold a very practical sway.

Most people live their lives laying prostrate before a false god, waiting for a cue to rise. There are no cues, only decisions. Shall I have dessert? Shall I have the best of the wine? Shall I love the person next to me? They can all be brought to your table. Rise, I say, rise and look within to the truth, to the light, and tell it your decision.

Miranda looked up at him through a haze of desire, her will consumed by a fierce crackling heat, just like the dry twigs of the old woman's fire.

Nevertheless, the potential and actual importance of fantastic literature lies in such psychic links: what appears to be the result of an overweening imagination, boldly and arbitrarily defying the laws of time, space and ordered causality, is closely connected with, and structured by, the categories of the subconscious, the inner impulses of man's nature. At first glance the scope of fantastic literature, free as it is from the restrictions of natural law, appears to be unlimited. A closer look, however, will show that a few dominant themes and motifs constantly recur: deals with the Devil; returns from the grave for revenge or atonement; invisible creatures; vampires; werewolves; golems; animated puppets or automatons; witchcraft and sorcery; human organs operating as separate entities, and so on. Fantastic literature is a kind of fiction that always leads us back to ourselves, however exotic the presentation; and the objects and events, however bizarre they seem, are simply externalizations of inner psychic states. This may often be mere mummery, but on occasion it seems to touch the heart in its inmost depths and become great literature.

Must we make ourselves acceptable by aping the conventions of organized religion? Do we need to become part of the lie of a linear progression that tells us history is the successive Ages of metals, that is war, and that this, the bloody end of the brief age of oil which can still end in the reign of uranium, is the pinnacle of our achievement as a species? I say, enough. I say that this beckoning twilight is the space witchcraft is gathering within. Our strength is hydra-headed, rising from the blood of the sacrificially slain dove.

My thesis is not that we anchor the witch in history, but that we understand that witchcraft is a set of relationships whose rhythm is that of the moon, stars, sun and earth. A witchcraft which adapts to the state of the world as it is, not backing into an imagined past.

Nature is only wild to those who seperate themselves from her.

Not every winged Creature is considered a bird or a bat. Some wings are made of magic. - Raani York – 2013 -

Oh! Great Lady of Fascination! We arise in somnambulant awe and dance entranced as you glide slowly and softly through the Heavenly Dome and suffuse our presence with unfathomable desires for faerie worlds, where all is order, where all is beauty, where nuances of quality proliferate miraculously in myraids of delicious subtleties.

Och, lass. Yer going to have to not do that.” Faolán exhaled. “Creeping up on a man is a dangerous thing, and I confess I’m jumpier than most. Yer feet are soft as a cat’s.” “I wasn’t creeping anywhere, I was going to make coffee and this is my house, I’ll creep anywhere I like,” Colleen muttered with a petulant scowl. “But I wasn’t creeping.

Oh! Dione of Opalescent Skin Ethereal. Your oospheric containment disperses argentous streams of velvety rays that cradle recesses of soul in gossamer of beatific visions.La Luna! Your enigmatic smile. Your watery countenance stirs the imagination and bestows inspiration on those receptive to Your Sacred Gifts.

O Moon that rid'st the night to wake Before the dawn is pale, The hamadryad in the brake, The Satyr in the vale, Caught in thy net of shadows What dreams hast thou to show? Who treads the silent meadows To worship thee below? The patter of the rain is hushed, The wind's wild dance is done, Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushed About the setting sun: And now beneath thy argent beam The wildwood standeth still, Some spirit of an ancient dream Breathes from the silent hill. Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokes The Ancient Ones of night, Once more the old stone altar smokes, The fire is glimmering bright. Scattered and few thy children be, Yet gather we unknown To dance the old round merrily About the time-worn stone. We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell, Nor mourn our outcast lot, Treading the mazes of a spell By priests and men forgot.

Our aim is to become as receptive as the moon, in order that we contain all the reflected solar fire and pour it out as libation, or curses. We listen. We observe. We absorb. We master silence and stillness, stealth. We are able to become ceaseless and undiminished in our giving. It is we who light, tend and extinguish the hearth fires. Fire flows through us and it is we who endure.

One was an ancient tortoiseshell cat with arthritis, who creaked around the house--but when Aunt Sibby flickered her fingers and crooned, Miminy, miminy, tall-as-a-chi-mi-ny, danced on his hind legs like a kitten.

Our fathers of faith have done a great job delivering our nations from the clutches of idolatry and witchcraft through signs and wonders

Our deepest fear is NOT that we are incompetent women. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond physical measure. It is our radiated spiritual strength that most frightens us… And empowers us!

Our inner Witch isn't something we acquire. It's already within us. It's something we become ready and willing to experience. Something we realize we ARE.

Refusing to lean back against him, Colleen sat ramrod straight until they reached the road. “I guess I should say thank you for saving my life,” she muttered then turned and slapped Faolán hard across the face. “And that’s for you having to save it in the first place. And I’m not your woman, you big, arrogant, lying, betraying…faery loving…” She searched for the perfect insult and couldn’t find one, “…Scot.” She gave a very unladylike snort. “Happy now? That fiery enough for you?

Rather that being an aberrant expression of North American fears and attitudes about witchcraft, it should be instead be seen as the ultimate expression of it. And therein lies the most alarming aspect of the Salem witch crisis- if Salem is not aberrant then it cannot be comfortably consigned to the past.

Out in the stone-pile the toad squatted with its glowing jewel-eyes and, maybe, its memories. I don't know if you'll admit a toad could have memories. But I don't know, either, if you'll admit there was once witchcraft in America. Witchcraft doesn't sound sensible when you think of Pittsburgh and subways and movie houses, but the dark lore didn't start in Pittsburgh or Salem either; it goes away back to dark olive groves in Greece and dim, ancient forests in Brittany and the stone dolmens of Wales. All I'm saying, you understand, is that the toad was there, under its rocks, and inside the shack Pete was stretching on his hard bed like a cat and composing himself to sleep. ("Before I Wake...")

Quand une ferme et ses habitants connaissent une crise grave, l'une des réponses possibles est la sorcellerie. Il est communément admis (du moins en privé, car en public on le désavoue) d'invoquer les "sorts" pour expliquer une catégorie particulière de malheurs, ceux qui se répètent sans raison dans une exploitation : les bêtes et les gens deviennent stériles, tombent malades ou meurent, les vaches avortent ou tarissent, les végétaux pourrissent ou sèchent, les bâtiments brûlent ou s'effondrent, les machines se détraquent, le ventes ratent... Les fermiers ont beau recourir aux spécialistes — médecin, vétérinaire, mécanicien... —, ceux-ci déclarent n'y rien comprendre. Tous ces malheurs sont considérés comme une perte de "force" pour le chef d'exploitation et de famille. C'est à lui seul que s'adresse l'annonce rituelle de l'état d'ensorcellement — "N'y en aurait-il pas, par hasard, qui te voudraient du mal ?" —, c'est lui qu'on dit ensorcelé, même s'il ne souffre personnellement de rien. Vaches, betteraves, tracteurs, enfants, porcheries, épouses et jardins ne sont jamais atteints pour eux-mêmes, mais pour leur relation au chef d'exploitation et de famille, parce que ce sont ses cultures, ses bêtes, ses machines, sa famille. Bref, ses possessions.

Roman soldiers were known to have carried amulets of tigereye into battle, for physical protection and to promote the courage necessary to rise up to the challenge of their rivals. Now that I think of it, I can't imagine a better incantation for a charging ritual for a tigereye than getting pumped listening to Survivor's 'Eye of the Tiger' with the stone in your hand.

Roots cannot grow into trees if there are no supernatural elements in the soil. Man cannot grow wealthy and famous if he doesn't contribute to either, the good or evil.

Sex was this primal connection like no magick she had ever known, even separated by a millimeter of latex. She knew that some combined the two and, while she could see how this would improve the magick, it would dilute the sex.

Samhain is the threshold to the Season of Death. The fertile fields of summer give way to the bare forests of autumn. As crops slowly die and winter takes over, the cycle of life is once again approaching a renewal.

Salem has become this... Mecca for Wiccans, but no witches died here. Aside from Tituba, no one practiced anything like witchcraft near here in colonial times. It was a bunch of bored Puritans who thought killing their neighbors at the behest of teenage girls was a fine, Christian form of entertainment and land acquisition.

Some of the best advice you will ever hear will come from the forest.