Best 4015 quotes in «fantasy quotes» category

Hate did not give way to heroism.

Have a scaffold erected in the square. We shall hang a traitor or two before dinner. And perhaps afterwards as well.” - Princess Karena

Have a scaffold erected in the square. We shall hang a traitor or two before dinner. And perhaps afterwards as well.

Have you ever been in a situation where you had to choose between your loved ones, knowing that whatever you decided, you would have to lie to one of them?’ ‘Yes. More than once.’ Elijah’s words sounded far too cold in the sudden silence. His finely chiselled face tensed up and his eyes grew cold. ‘And before you ask, I chose you every time.

Have you lost your mind? What have I told you Charlie about whales? You can’t MANHANDLE THEM!

Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

Have you ever reached to a point where you asked God if the assignment is really from Him. In your account you have just 100 dollars and He is asking you to execute a 400 million dollar project. Have you reached to the point that you consider going further will make no sense? Have you reached the point where you asked God are you sure you are still with me? I just found myself in that Junction now. Turning back ....to realise I have gone too far for Him to forsake me. Moving forward I heard the voice saying ...be still and know that I am your God. Giving up.....Couldn't find it in my dictionary. Moral of the lesson. God cannot give you an assignment that is equal to your pocket. If it suits your pocket it is definitely not from God. Remember God will not take glory where nothing happen.

Have you never thought how danger must surround power as shadow does light? This sorcery is not a game we play for pleasure or for praise. Think of this: that every word, every act of our Art is said and is done either for good, or for evil. Before you speak or do you must know the price that is to pay!

Having the world as you wish--that is not for the young," he added, "They want too much.

Hay que mirar las cosas muy atentamente para poder ver los electrones. Son esas cositas minúsculas que parecen sonrisas diminutas. Los neutrones son grises y parecen ceños fruncidos.

Having to amuse myself during those earlier years, I read voraciously and widely. Mythic matter and folklore made up much of that reading—retellings of the old stories (Mallory, White, Briggs), anecdotal collections and historical investigations of the stories' backgrounds—and then I stumbled upon the Tolkien books which took me back to Lord Dunsany, William Morris, James Branch Cabell, E.R. Eddison, Mervyn Peake and the like. I was in heaven when Lin Carter began the Unicorn imprint for Ballantine and scoured the other publishers for similar good finds, delighting when I discovered someone like Thomas Burnett Swann, who still remains a favourite. This was before there was such a thing as a fantasy genre, when you'd be lucky to have one fantasy book published in a month, little say the hundreds per year we have now. I also found myself reading Robert E. Howard (the Cormac and Bran mac Morn books were my favourites), Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith and finally started reading science fiction after coming across Andre Norton's Huon of the Horn. That book wasn't sf, but when I went to read more by her, I discovered everything else was. So I tried a few and that led me to Clifford Simak, Roger Zelazny and any number of other fine sf writers. These days my reading tastes remain eclectic, as you might know if you've been following my monthly book review column in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I'm as likely to read Basil Johnston as Stephen King, Jeanette Winterson as Harlan Ellison, Barbara Kingsolver as Patricia McKillip, Andrew Vachss as Parke Godwin—in short, my criteria is that the book must be good; what publisher's slot it fits into makes absolutely no difference to me.

Hay gente que se enamora de los pájaros. Te enamoras de su canto, de sus alas, de su forma de volar o de cazar. Entonces te lo quedas y lo encierras en una jaula de madera. Lo miras cada mañana, le sonríes, pero el pájaro deja de volar, de cazar, de cantar. Sus alas se marchitan, y un día, sin saber por qué, despiertas y dejas de mirarlo. Ya no te importa si es feliz, si le brillas los ojos; te limitas a alimentarlo, toleras su presencia y te acostumbras a el, pero el pájaro ha perdido sus encantos. cansado del pájaro te enamorarás de otro lobo, con otros encantos...

He ate with all the restraint of a nymphomaniac at an orgy.

He blinked in surprise and was even more startled when the dragon mimicked the action, but did so sideways. A clear membrane coated its eye, then drew back to reveal hues infinitely more searing than before—so vibrant it was painful for Roger to look into them. Orange pulsating like a lava flow, yellow glistening brighter than a city made of gold, green flashing like St. Elmo’s fire. All these colors danced not a foot in front of Roger’s face, flickering within that gigantic orb...

He came here for one act alone: murder.

He can talk!" "Yes, I can speak any language you want, fly, and breath fire." Air Raid said proudly. "Can you do anything else?" the boy asked. Air Raid thought for a moment then said, "I can sing." "No, he can't. And please don't ask him to prove it," Ally quickly said looking at the fawn haired girl pleadingly. "I'll believe you this time," the fawn hair girl said. After being proven wrong several times already she didn't want to take any more chances.

He clamped her body to his as if by the sheer force of his embrace he could crawl inside her soul and anchor himself there for eternity.

He considered himself a sort of esoteric martyr, who'd sacrificed everything for principle. Apparently that little book had set him on a course towards political extremism, culminating in the loss of his job at the community college, as well as the breakup of his previously stable marriage. By the time he met Old Hoss, a few years later, Hiram Buckley was one of those unfortunates the normal and untroubled point at in scorn and laugh at derisively; a veritable dog that's kicked while it's down. He was, under such circumstances, a perfect companion for Abner "Old Hoss" Billingsly, one of the few people who didn't consider him a prime candidate for St. Elizabeth's, the infamous mental hospital located in the District of Columbia. Since his career in education had been so rudely interrupted, the Professor had worked his way through a series of menial, low paying jobs, which he inevitably lost due to his proclivity for preaching unwelcome and unpopular political ideas to his fellow employees.

He cowered in terror as the body of the beast darkened the water above him. The monster swooped around the crevice, scenting the blood trail from Luke's foot. Luke saw that several of his toes had been ripped off. He felt sick.

He closed his eyes. Mazana or Avallon, Avallon or Mazana. The choice seemed no clearer now than it had ever been. The future offered two paths, but what did you do when you wanted to walk both, you wanted to walk neither? The answer seemed obvious suddenly. You made your own path, of course. A new path entirely. He opened his eyes again. In the room behind, Kolloken was whistling. You mean you ain’t done worse in your time? Senar pictured Uriel sitting next to Mazana in Olaire, learning to use water-magic. The Guardian hadn’t known the boy well. In truth, he’d never tried to get to know him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the sting of his death. Maybe in Kolloken’s place he would have done the same; he didn’t know. What he did know, though, was that he wouldn’t have been whistling about it afterward. He wouldn’t have blamed Mazana for what happened like he was the one who’d been wronged. A coldness settled on him, and he pushed himself away from the wall. Then he turned and went back into Kolloken’s room, closing the door behind.

He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled at the fragments of the elements to light the torches hanging at the pillars on either side of him. The fire did little to warm the night, but Kaustab found its presence reassuring, the flickering blue flames danced and sparred with the shadows on the walls, a battle that the fire couldn’t win.

He'd chase her to Hell and back if needs be, but whether it was for love, or lust, or power, he did not know.

He danced across my heart like a pirate, Constantly discovering my secrets, Turning over every hidden treasure, Drowning me in his fantasy.

He ducked and weaved under low branches. More screams and loud swearing reverberated around him, propelling him forward even faster. Now within visual range, fear struck his heart.

He’d used the amulet to read my thoughts again. I pictured smacking him in the face.

He dismounted and lifted his arms to Shae. Light as she was, he had to step backward when she leaned into him. He steadied them both, and then turned to instruct the groom. When Kai looked for her again, Shae was gone. A smile touched his mouth as he went through an archway in the inner curtain wall. He would keep his knowledge of Shae’s morning activities to himself. (from DawnSinger)

He’d need the woman’s help to set things right; he just didn’t like having to wake the dead.

He'd taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork. At least, that's how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like "Lupin Squiggle, Sec'y, pp". Still, if it wasn't actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general.

He’d spent the night in the boat. Next to the spaghetti queen. William glanced at the hobo girl. She sat across from him, huddled in a clump. Her stench had gotten worse overnight, probably from the dampness. Another night like the last one, and he might snap and dunk her into that river just to clear the air. She saw him looking. Dark eyes regarded him with slight scorn. William leaned forward and pointed at the river. “I don’t know why you rolled in spaghetti sauce,” he said in a confidential voice. “I don’t really care. But that water over there won’t hurt you. Try washing it off.” She stuck her tongue out. “Maybe after you’re clean,” he said. Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a long moment. A little crazy spark lit up in her dark irises. She raised her finger, licked it, and rubbed some dirt off her forehead. Now what? The girl showed him her stained finger and reached toward him slowly, aiming for his face. “No,” William said. “Bad hobo.” The finger kept coming closer.

He does seem rather taken with you,” Jacques said, almost sending Ignatius off bleating with laughter. The man sounded quite perplexed and put out that the horseman had chosen another over him. “The same could be said of you,” Ignatius reminded him, thinking of a forced seduction by chicken.

He felt the imaginary weight of shackles press against his soul. He bound himself to her once more.

He grinned. “Do not fear. I am here to serve you, as I promised.” Despite the fit of schoolgirl giggles that had seized her in Carbonek when he first proposed to be her knight, his assurance annoyed her now. “You inspire me with confidence,” she said, honey-sweet. “With a few more years and experience, you would make a capable guardian, I’m sure.” “And you an amiable ward,” he said, bowing again.

He felt that he had always been there, among the apple trees, watching for the woman in the tower to come to her window. Seasons may have passed, years may have grown green on the bough, then withered and fallen, but he would stand there and wait for a chance to keep a promise he had made.

He gazed into eyes the color of a summer morning sky and sighed. It felt as if his soul had just come home.

He felt that once the dark of the forest closed over them, they would never see clear sunlight again. Yet it was the kind of fear that excited him, made him want to dare its shadows.

He had never been willing to believe that life had to be as gray and dull as people claimed. He heard them saying: “Life is like that,” but he couldn’t agree. He never stopped believing in mysteries and miracles.

He had an imagination so excitable that it flirted with the edges of fantasy, which is also something we can try to preserve in ourselves and indulge in our children.

He had been trying to measure the distance between the earth and God.

He had never experienced anything like this before outside the Zone. And it had happened in the Zone only two or three times. It was as though he were in a different world. A million odors cascaded in on him at once—sharp, sweet, metallic, gentle, dangerous ones, as crude as cobblestones, as delicate and complex as watch mechanisms, as huge as a house and as tiny as a dust particle. The air became hard, it developed edges, surfaces, and corners, like space was filled with huge, stiff balloons, slippery pyramids, gigantic prickly crystals, and he had to push his way through it all, making his way in a dream through a junk store stuffed with ancient ugly furniture … It lasted a second. He opened his eyes, and everything was gone. It hadn't been a different world—it was this world turning a new, unknown side to him. This side was revealed to him for a second and then disappeared, before he had time to figure it out.

He hadn’t been able to help himself, couldn’t have stopped himself from kissing her even if he’d tried. Fighting with her was a million times better than dreaming, and the fight had conjured his soul to act, to kiss her. And that kiss was nothing like anything he had ever experienced before. He knew if he would die then, he’d die a happy man because it meant he’d savor her forever, relish her passion among his. She’d tasted so sweet, like the sweetest fruit or the sweetest dessert. Her lips were heaven on his, his heaven on Earth.

He had only heard of dragons, and although he had never seen one, he was sure they existed.

He had an image in his mind of a gaggle of long-necked geese, all done up in petticoats and crinolines, sitting around a stuffy parlor and talking about him.

He had heard many of his customers talking about 'repetitive strain injury' over the years and he was sure that, if he was capable, he too would suffer this - especially with the industrial tooling he carried around everywhere that he went.

He had taken the precaution of closing the inside shutters of the only window, and his staff, though it leaned lightly on the door, was capable of keeping out anyone who did not want to smash his way in with an ax.

He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless,because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so ...

He had to die someday too. He might do it on sheets with a six-hundred-plus thread count, but he'd die just the same. Death wouldn't forget about him.

He is mine, too.

He is everything you fear, and worse. He is also everything you hope, and more.

He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.

He holds me by the hair, making me look into eyes that saw the birth of the world.", FADE by Kailin Gow