Best 153 quotes in «fairytale quotes» category

Sad really.” Avenant mused. “Trevelyan was part of a majestic race. Doomed and enslaved by lesser beings, but majestic, none the less.” His gaze swept over the rest of the group with a sigh. “I know the feeling well.

Scaoileadh Me.... 'Release me.' That was what he said. No doubt about it. It was in Gaelic, but that was what the voice said. Holy. Crap.

Secrets are dark things. They don’t exist in the light. They glow faintly in forgotten corners, in mysterious mind-nooks, in lost memory maps. Secrets are the shadows of the soul.

She's an unfinished fairytale that never got any closure on pages.

She is a figure of legend and fairy tale, one to be taken seriously, or she might knock you off your feet with a quick whirl of the staff she carries everywhere.

Sometimes the wrong fairytale turns out to be just right!

She says affection is all very well being imagined, like a romantic fancy, but marriage should be based on practical purposes in order to last longer.

The boat dipped and swayed and sometimes took on water, but it did not sink; the two brothers had waterproofed it well. I do not know where it finally fetched up, if it ever did; perhaps it reached the sea and sails there forever, like a magic boat in a fairytale. All I know is that it was still afloat and still running on the breast of the flood when it passed te incorporated town limits of Derry, Maine, and there it passes out of this tale forever.

The castle always looks so mysterious," she said, awed. "Is it wonderful, living there?" "It isn’t so mysterious when you're there. I'd rather look at it from the hills. It's just—full of people, at least the servants' parts are, crowded and ordinary. Things should be mysterious, but there's nothing mysterious in the palace." "Should things be mysterious?" "There's mystery in the hills and in the wind on the grass. And in the stories you like. Isn't life mysterious?

The Castleteria was bustling with activity as students ate lunch. Hagatha, the lunch lady, was an expert at fixing meals for all sorts of palates and all sizes of stomachs. Porridge was always on the menu, as were curds and whey. The day's lunch special was cheeseburgers, grilled by dragon fire, with a helping of enormous green beans, provided by the giants.

The mirror sighed and spoke in a tone tinged with melancholy. Its language was old and not of any of the worlds known or unknown. What you dream, what you darkly desire, Find it by trial or by fire. Seek it high and seek it low, Search the skies or the realms below. Look everywhere but beware, The deepest magic, the strongest spell Will not change what the stars foretell.

There was a clink of glass slippers against the wood floor, and then her mother appeared in the doorway. She had the same strawberry-blond hair and green eyes as Ashlynn. Her mother was already dressed, but Ashlynn didn't notice the clothes she was wearing. As always, her eyes went right to the glass slippers. Oh, how she loved those shoes. "Chores, dear!" her mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Ashlynn's head. "And then you should pack." "Yes, Mother!" Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep her Happily Ever After.

The little queen’s mother and father had said that she would live on, for a long time, and that her tears would magnify the life around her forever more, but they had not explained how she should go about going on.

The swamp roses, Gillie. It was the mare found them. She—if she hadn't run off—it was almost as if she meant me to see them." "Are you saying? . . ." "I don't know what I’m saying. Yes," she cried, a gay silliness taking her. Drunk with the music and the dancing, drunk with his closeness, she laughed up at him. It was just as in the stories, a kind of magic just like . . ." and then she stared at him, confounded.  "Just like what?"  "But in the stories . . ."  "In the stories . . . what?”  "In the stories . . ."  "In the stories there’s a prince," Gillie answered quietly. He held her away then. "So the story has come true.

They are faithful, even if we are not.

They began with a winter soup, lovingly cooked in a copper pot with a shinbone left over from Sunday lunch- But the witch brought in a light bouillon, simmered with the sweetest of baby shallots and scented with ginger and lemongrass and served with croutons so crisp and small that they seemed to vanish in her mouth- The mother brought in the second course. Sausages and potato mash; a comforting dish the child always loved, with sticky onion marmalade- But the witch brought in a brace of quail that had been gorged on ripe figs all their lives, now roasted and stuffed with chestnuts and foie gras and served with a coulis of pomegranate- Now the mother was close to despair. She brought dessert: a stout apple pie, made to her mother's recipe. But the witch had made a pièce montée: a pastel-colored sugared dream of almonds, summer fruit, and pastries like a puff of air, all scented with rose and marshmallow cream, and served with a glass of Château d'Yquem-

This probably isn’t something you’re supposed to say at a moment like this, but I think the moon is seriously overrated.” A moment like what? I bite my cheeks, taming the grin that threatens to take over my face. “And the stars?” I ask, once the smile is under control. “Wildly underrated,” he declares with a grin. He looks up again. “The sky is a storybook,” he says then. “Every constellation’s like its own fairy tale.

To imagine is to spark beauty in our thoughts.

To love, to live, to feel so much that your world keeps spinning, faster and faster, in that wonderful, chaotic mess of humanity that you’d so hastily give up. Immortality is overrated. It is nothing but the ability to live through it all and not experience a single thing, to eat everything without tasting it at all." Isak’s eyes shone with a desperate need. He wanted, more than anything it seemed, to be like me, when all I wanted was to be like him.

Twenty-five minutes ago, I was blissfully invisible. No laughing. No evil grins. No drama. And now? It couldn’t be more dramatic. I’ve got a stepsister masquerading as Cinderella, the chauvinistic villagers think I’m the ugly stepsister, and the boy coming to my side is more likely to snag a prince than I am.

The euphoric lust cloud is gone and once the smoke begins to clear, like in all good fairytales, the princess turns into nothing more than a common farm girl while the prince goes back to being a regular frog.

There were fat cats and skinny cats. The long-tailed and the bobbed. The daring young leapers, and the old windowsill sleepers. Balls of waddling fluff, smooth-coated prowlers, and hairless ones that looked fragile and wise. The tiger-striped, the ring-tailed, and the ones with matching coloured socks and mittens. There were tabbies and calicos. Manx and Persians. Siamese and Bombay. Ragdolls and Birmans. Maine Coons and Russian Blues. There were Snowshoes and Somalis, Tonkinese and Turkish, and many, many more. Brown and beige and orange and grey and black and white and silver cats, each with gleaming eyes of emerald, or sapphire, or amber. A rainbow of precious stones.

They ran through the night together in a darkling fairy tale of blood and forests and snow, of girls with raven's wing hair and rose-red lips and sharp teeth as white as milk.

This is a dark tale. A grim tale. It's a tale from another time, a time when wolves waited for girls in the forest, beasts paced the halls of cursed castles, and witches lurked in gingerbread houses with sugar-kissed roofs. That time is long gone. But the wolves are still here and twice as clever. The beasts remain. And death still hides in a dusting of white. It's grim for any girl who loses her way. Grimmer still for a girl her loses herself. Know that it's dangerous to stray from the path. But it's far more dangerous not to.

Today, it was Thalia’s turn to tell the story. And this time, it was going to have a happy ending. She knew this for a fact, because she had written it herself.

Walk barefoot on your dogma… Art is a journey into your existential fairytale.

we all have one foot in a fairytale, and the other in the abyss

Well, actually it was—my fairy godmother.” Here I could have moaned. “I did not realize they were still in business as well,” I said.

We’ll hop home, as we hares have done since time immemorial.

We will get you a dress with magic, just as in the stories," he said seriously. "But they're only stories, Gillie, Magic isn’t real."  "We will make it real.

…while the outside world was full of danger, I knew my interior. I was certain that I could oust an intruder there.

Vila the White, Built a City up height, Not in the Heavens, not on the ground, But on the edge of a Cloud, Vila the White, Put defenses the bright: Gold defends the heights, Sun defends the gate, Moon defends the City when it's late, Vila the White, Stood with Sun at sight, Watching what comes from the bay, And saw Lightning and Thunder play, Vila the White, Wed her son on Moon at night, And gave her daughter to Gold, as bride, They have couple brothers, she's their brother's wife.

What is a warrior anyway?' Black breathed. 'Being brave doesn’t make you good. I suppose there are warriors for both dark and light.

What is the difference between a dream and its memory?

When a child keeps asking you to tell him/her a story, what they instinctively really want to know is their true purpose and mission in life. Sadly, this knowledge was never sought out by their parents, and explains why children's books are a very hot and lucrative industry. Instead of telling your child how to become a compassionate citizen of the world, or how to live a meaningful existence by being a positive asset to humanity, you are conditioned by society to simply read your kid a fairytale.

Whenever she felt at home, there always seemed to be love floating about on the edges of things.

Why any self-respecting fairy godmother would pass them over for an inane twit who relied on animals to do her housecleaning was beyond her.

Why did everyone like that story so much when it wasn't true? Why was everyone so eager to believe it? Was it because, in real life, ever after's generally stink?

Yes sir, the fish was left in place of the crystal ball. It's been bagged and tagged for analysis.” Great. Now we have another red herring on our hands.

You are ugly now, on the inside, where it matters most...you are beastly.

You can feel the stars and the infinity of the sky. Since life, in spite of everything, is like a fairytale.

You look like a Greek God, not to attract me per say, but to be attractive to all. It’s part of your power, your persuasive way. It’s also part of the evil, to make it harder for you to remain good. Evil doesn’t just come in the form of a monster, it comes in the form of a beautiful woman, a temptress if you will, in the form of sin. With your incredible good looks, women will be more drawn to you, which could tempt you to evil’s sin; a curse, as well as a gift.

Your American fairytales end that way.  Real fairytales end in blood or tears.

You shall have," Gillie said, "the king's bread and goat milk." "The magical goat milk?" "The same." "Will it make me beautiful?" "It cannot. You are already that.

You thought if you were good. If you gave up the things that made you different. The world you know. That it would be enough. But sacrifice is often so invisible. People do not look for it in others. They know their own. They list them out like titles at a ball. I've done for you. I've done for you. I've done. And it is always your turn now. To hurt, to long. To be a broken thing. A thing that differs. Before, you always thought you were a person.

Anyone who still wants to experience fairytales these days can’t afford to dither when it comes to using their brains.

Why Do Fairies Let Bad Things Happen to Good People?

You don't have to be a prince to love the princess.

You might be a fairy tale leprechaun man but at the heart of it you're still a man who won't talk about anything.

You want to know how to stop this killer? Forgive yourself, and he’ll disappear from your life forever.” “Thanks. I’ll be sure to do that.” And I know: 1. This is almost the same conversation I’ve had with myself many times before. 2. Gordon’s only trying to help. But it doesn’t matter. I: 1. Say, “See you later.” 2. Step outside. 3. Close the door. I don’t want to, really. I want to go back inside and believe Gordon’s words, like a child believing in a fairy tale, and I want to escape this nightmare forever. But I can’t. I realize now that it’s easy to tell the difference between a real problem and an imaginary one. It’s just the terror of facing the truth that’s hard.