Quotes About Journey

One lies in truth, One truth is lies. One path is death, One path is life. One question asked, The path to guide.

They listened to the Beatles for most of the journey, and Hynes explained to Gackowska why Abbey Road was the band's best record, and how Sgt. Pepper's wasn't really a concept album, no matter what anyone claimed to the contrary. Then he had to explain to Gackowska what a concept album was, and a B side, until pretty soon he felt about a hundred years old and was tempted to check himself into a nursing home.

We lose ourselves by degrees: our youth, our souls.

We must have taken a wrong turn turning somewhere." "Where, Purgatory?" said Dozy. "We're in Hell.

There's always someplace to go, even if it's only someplace else.

be close to another human being at that instant was enough to convince one, however briefly, that something beyond understanding passed from the body with that final sigh, that some essence began its journey from this world to another.

I was a stranger in a familiar land.

It is by a process of simplification carried constantly further and further that happiness is won.

Captain Carpenter rose up in his primePut on his pistols and went riding out.

path is only a name for a place where you find yourself. Where you're going on it is only a story. Where you've been on it is only another. Some of the stories are pleasant ones; some are not. That's dark and light.

Travel backward to a lost land heard of in childhood; find it to be incomprehensible, rich, strange; then discover it is the place from which you set out.

In silvergreen rainy April they went down to Glastonbury on the long straight roads ...

She began to laugh. You will wander, and live in many houses. "Many houses!

John Crowley

When you return home, you'll tell the story of how you sought it and failed, and that story will be told and told again. And when you're dead yourself, the story will go on being told, and in that telling you'll speak and act and be alive again.

Dar Oakley said nothing. Stories were the way People lived. Like paths, they could be traveled in any direction, yet always ran from beginning to end.

Carrying a torch," George Mouse called it, and Auberon, who had never heard the old phrase, thought it just, because he thought of the torch he carried not as a penitential or devotional one, but as Sylvie. He carried a torch: her. She flared brightly sometimes, sank low other times; he saw by her, though he had no path in particular he wanted to see.

He went out, already unaccountably weary though the journey had not even begun, into the multicolored arctic waste beneath a decillion stars, whose near brilliance seemed to chime, even as the harness of his reindeer chimed when they raised their shaggy heads at his approach, and as the eternal snow chimed too when he trod it with his booted feet. Room

girdled in story, trapped in story, and the only way out was to go through.

The Tale was behind them. And it was to there they journeyed. One step would take them there; they were there already

John Crowley

I've learned...that here you can never go back the way you came. That you never do anywhere. You only and always go on.

People in tales don't know, always. But there they are.

The story of the house all lit, the house of four floors, seven chimneys, three hundred and sixty-five stairs, fifty-two doors, traveled far; they were all travelers then. It