Fantasy Quotes - Page 38

It is good to be willing to stand as a hero, but you must also be willing to fall as a hero

What would you suggest?” one of the Italian officials asked.“We do have a highly-advanced biological device called the Illuminator,” Joseph chimed in

No. You surpass us all." Beside me she looked colorless and frail. "You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns.

Keep your wits about you, Killian O'Brien, for you'll be no good to anyone if your head lies apart from the rest of your body!

Someday, Ry, you are going to realize who Darren really is. He’s a prince, and he’s only going to break your heart.

And to do something that helps your coven survive, even after your own death, is the greatest gift you can possibly give them…”--Angela from Angela’s Coven

Sometimes fantasy provides the only reasonable explanation for life's inexplicable moments.

I want to take my time with you - to learn … every inch of you. And this apartment has very, very thin walls. I don’t want to have an audience” he added as he leaned down again, brushing his mouth over the cut at the base of her throat, “when I make you moan, Aelin.

Remember Ping-fa, Sun Tzu,’ Art of War—read between the lines: kick ass and take names later.”MadStargirl

But, in truth, it had not exactly been gold, or even the promise of gold, but more like the fantasy of gold, the fairy dream that the gold is there, at the end of the rainbow, and will continue to be there forever - provided, naturally, that you don't go and look. This is known as finance.

Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain. Classic thinking teaches us of the four doors of the mind, which everyone moves through according to their need.First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door.Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying 'time heals all wounds' is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door.Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind. Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.

I have had as many names as there are years to time itself! roared the monster. I am Herne the Hunter! I am Cernunnos! I am the eternal Green Man!

Snow. I wondered what it felt like. Aunt Bernette said it could be both soft and hard, cold and hot. It stung and burned when the wind pelted it through the air, and it was a gentle cold feather when it drifted down in lazy circles from the sky. I couldn't imagine it being so many things, and I wondered if she had taken license with her story as Father always claimed. I couldn't stop thinking of it.Snow.

Tell yourself the stories you need to tell. But don't be fooled by them. Never live your own lies.

Slender Youth. A tour companion who may be either a lost prince or a girl/princess in disguise. In the latter case it is tactful to pretend you think she is a boy. She/he will be ignorant, hasty and shy, and will need hauling out of trouble quite a lot. But she/he will grow up in the course of the Tour. In fact she/he will be the only Companion who will change in any way. Quite often, she/he will soon exhibit a very useful talent for magic and end up by hauling everyone else out of trouble. But this will not be until midway through your second brochure.

You are never too old to have an active imagination.

Jeffers stretched up on his toes to see the back of the mob, “But James, we’re doing all this for you... We need this gold to build a united Alba. We need it to fund an army and to forge decisive leadership.” His voice was almost plaintive. “We want to hand your generation a real empire rather than just a loose collection of competing Families. We want to give you the foundations to achieve glory! What could possibly be wrong with that?”“Rubbish!” cried Tristan, not about to let honey-coated nonsense dissolve the glue that bound his army. “Absolute codswallop!” he let his calm facade slip for the first time that day. “What you’re actually trying to do is to build a legacy that you don’t deserve! You want to swan around as an armchair General for the next twenty years while your precious army strives and dies for hollow victories that do nothing more than feed your ego! And do you know who strives and dies in this picture?” He waved one arm at the figures behind him. “We do! We here in this alley, along with other young men and women just like us!”Tristan watched Jeffers from the corner of his eye, as he shook his fist towards deGroot, “Well we’re not having it! If you want us to fight and die, then we’re going to fight now, and we’re going to fight you! So come on down deGroot and take a swing!

Most tales carry a kernel of truth, else they're soon forgotten.

All his senses screamed in warning, the very air reeking of forbidden magic, but duty call him forward.

What’s the difference? Fill a hundred pits with dead Northmen, congratulations, have a parade! Kill one man in the same uniform as you? A crime. A murder. Worse than despicable. Are we not all men? All blood and bone and dreams?

She looked at her best friend as he unraveled the tightly wound cord from his heart and told her what she had been hoping to hear." from the upcoming The Witch of Belle Fleur

In the City Market is the Meet Café. Followers of obsolete, unthinkable trades doodling in Etruscan, addicts of drugs not yet synthesized, pushers of souped-up harmine, junk reduced to pure habit offering precarious vegetable serenity, liquids to induce Latah, Tithonian longevity serums, black marketeers of World War III, excusers of telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit, investigators of infractions denounced by bland paranoid chess players, servers of fragmentary warrants taken down in hebephrenic shorthand charging unspeakable mutilations of the spirit, bureaucrats of spectral departments, officials of unconstituted police states, a Lesbian dwarf who has perfected operation Bang-utot, the lung erection that strangles a sleeping enemy, sellers of orgone tanks and relaxing machines, brokers of exquisite dreams and memories tested on the sensitized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw materials of the will, doctors skilled in the treatment of diseases dormant in the black dust of ruined cities, gathering virulence in the white blood of eyeless worms feeling slowly to the surface and the human host, maladies of the ocean floor and the stratosphere, maladies of the laboratory and atomic war... A place where the unknown past and the emergent future meet in a vibrating soundless hum... Larval entities waiting for a Live One...

I really am a unicorn?' I asked again.'You think Janis and I escaped from an asylum, don't you?' she teased.'I hope you're not,' I said, horrified at the thought of being turned into a lunatic like them.

Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger.

Silas consumed only one food, and it was not bananas.

The difference between the quest for the Holy Grail and someone saying ‘bring me a cup’ is the flavor text and the number of stops involved.

It was hope that brought me love.

There is special power in that sword,' Ewer went on, 'the gem in the guard of the Ares holds the blood of the Creature that has been slain by it.

Be careful mi amor, don't hurt anyone this time." Cordia reminded Jade.

While his brain lay slowly dying, Bevan felt his body come back to life.

The battered and pathetic thing that represented any claim to conscience I might have had turned away from me in disgust. Oddly, I couldn't blame it. I was disgusted myself. Disgusted at my weakness and my lack of resolution, at my refusal to see justice through in the name of the woman who had borne me.

What had survived - maybe all that had survived of Trism - was Liir's sense of him. A catalog of impressions that arose from time to time, unbidden and often upsetting. From the sandy smell of his sandy hair to the locked grip of his muscles as they had wrestled in sensuous aggression - unwelcome nostalgia. Trism lived in Liir's heart like a full suit of clothes in a wardrobe, dress habillards maybe, hollow and real at once. The involuntary memory of the best of Trism's glinting virtues sometimes kicked up unquietable spasms of longing.

His father was an ass and he is an ass. I imagine sooner than I should like I shall be playing uncle to a litter of asses.

The treacherous are ever distrustful.

That's one huge puppy.

This book is a work of fiction.Actually, it is a work of fiction within a fiction, as the main characters, though real persons in a fictional world, are being depicted in a book which other fictional characters in the same world are reading. Any reference to historical events-- rather, historical events non-Marridonian, and also non-Sesternese-- real people—rather, people in our realm, not the persons I was referring to in the previous line-- or real places—places that are not Marridon, Sesterna, and any place on the Two Continents-- are used fictitiously, because this is a work of fiction, and is a fiction within a fiction, as was previously stated. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination—referring to the ultimate author, not the fictitious author who has written the book within the book-- and any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, living, dead, or otherwise, is entirely coincidental, but any resemblance to actual persons or places in the Two Continents is intentional. Absolutely no parts of this book, text or art, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, whether electronically or mechanically, including photocopying—“By Myrellenos, are we here in the disclaimer again? This is the third time, I believe. And there are still no cups out. Where is the teapot?”“Here, boss.”“Oh, there is tea in this story? I might be more inclined to stay and hear this one. The others were dreadful slow. I must have some tea, if I am going to be made to sit and listen to a whole book. I am not Bartleby, who can sit at his desk and flump over his tomes until he moulders.”“He’s gonna hear you, boss.”“I should say not, Rannig. He is too busy with doing the edits. He found a mistake in one of the other books about us and demanded he perform the editing this time around. The author was very good to let him do as he likes. He is missing tea, however.”--audio recording, data retrieval, cloud storage, torrent, or streaming service. If you do decide to ignore this disclaimer and print or share this book illegally, I will have Bartleby come to your house with a sample from the Marridonian legal extracts, and he will read them to you until you promise never to do anything illegal again.

Reality wins, and I'd rather see the truth than stay in love with a fantasy.

Oh. Now you are not so afraid, then?"Kitty opened her mouth, indignant. "I was not afraid before! I was... shocked. How many times do you see your orphanage roommate be able to turn someone into stone?""Every time I look in the mirror.

Sometimes even the smallest of efforts can change someone’s fate entirely.

the siren song/called silence

Fantasy is not antirational, but pararational; not realistic but surrealistic, a heightening of reality. In Freud's terminology, it employs primary not secondary process thinking. It employs archetypes which, as Jung warned us, are dangerous things. Fantasy is nearer to poetry, to mysticism, and to insanity than naturalistic fiction is. It is a wilderness, and those who go there should not feel too safe.

Ready?" Aeron called over.Michael span to see him giving a thumbs up to the booth. His eye was drawn down to the huge war hammer hanging from his other hand."How about we start with a chase? Try to touch the far wall and get back here before I cripple you." He smiled as if he'd said 'tag you', not 'cripple you'.

Trust not in Sprites nor the motivations of a Gnome.

I quickly dropped my hands and changed the subject. "So those two who visited me the other night. Who were they?" I asked.He smiled, knowingly. "Ares and Aphrodite."Of course, I thought. In fact, I think I had already sort of figured that out. Although in my mind they were still Mr. Scowly Face and Miss Perfect Bitch. I found those the names I had given them much more appropriate

Cruelty had been his weapon. But such a tool is dangerous and can spread further than you intend.

My inner bitch could handle this peon without even breaking a sweat.

It was the ideal place where people call ‘home.

I stare at the long, almost elegant thinness of the wrist bone jutting out from a heap of flesh and cloth. All that separates us, that poor woman and me, is an accident of birth.

It was never just about the money.

Impressive deduction,” Ryan murmured. “You certainly look deeper than most.” He brushed back a strand of my hair, and I screwed my eyes shut. He was doing this on purpose. “But let me give you some advice.” His lips were right next to my ear. “I wouldn’t peer too far. Even the clearest window can cast back your own reflection.

It was 5:45pm when I decided my future. By 9:43 I was well on my way to making it all come true. At 11:16 I took the first step to make it a reality. At 11:17 I fell and found peace.

Surrealism, then, neither aims to subvert realism, as does the fantastic, nor does it try to transcend it. It looks for different means by which to explore reality itself.

Writing is a form of running away. Running away to a place you made by your own hand.

This isn't the hand of some swooning princess who sits tatting lace and waiting for some prince to save her. This is the hand of a woman who would climb a rope of her own hair to freedom, or kill a captor ogre in his sleep. And this is the hand of a woman who would have made it through the fire on her own if I hadn't been there. Singed perhaps, but safe.

I caught his hand. “What do you want me to do?”Leaning down, he kissed the pulse beating on my neck just above the damaged skin. “Tomorrow, I need you to die.

Morning and eveningMaids heard the goblins cry:'Come buy our orchard fruits,Come buy, come buy

Oftentimes lies are found in those closest to you and truth in perfect strangers

That was a day that taught me the meaning of abject failure.

I'll govern for the good of the governed.I'll make sure every citizen is properly educated and doctored.I'll cease wasteful spending and ease the burden on the poor through redistribution of land and goods and taxation.

Tell them the Night Angel walks. Tell them Justice is come.