Quotes About Tales

Everyone wanted to know more lurid tales about the Wraethru. Only I knew he was one of them: his hands were never still, and I could tell half the things he said were lies.

That was a story, too; they all had stories.

after the classics what he most enjoyed were tales of crime, boudoir intrigue, and questionable conduct.

Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound.

Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was unanswerable.

Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear.

Fear of power invisible, feigned by the mind, or imagined from tales publicly allowed, [is] religion; not allowed, superstition.

Gnostic tales tell of the homesickness of the soul, its yearning for its own milieu…

Inevitably, I became distracted by tales that I knew held no promise for us—accounts of murders that had long since been solved, or whose salient characteristics were nothing like those of our case—but which were so morbidly fascinating on their own merits that I had to see how they turned out.

That. . .is the paradox, the part that is perplexing. It seems, that if we take theses stories too literally, if we expect our personal lives to always end with a handsome prince, most of us will close our books with shattered dreams. Yet, on the other hand. . .if we don't take the meaning of these stories literally, if we treat theses tales as simple entertainment, we miss the deepest most life-changing aspects of the stories. We miss the entire reason they exist.

There are always tales and there is always a patriotic refusal to disbelieve, even though the tales are never in the least credible and are never believed by anyone not of the world that produces them.

Tales without end are told of these massive, lonely figures who bore half-seriously, half-mockingly a motto adopted from one of Salvor Hardin's epigrams, "Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right!

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells!

You're the one who taught me that there is truth below the surface of tales. That we can learn courage from them. That they can teach us how to live our lives.

I sense the joy of young and old, I hear wondrous tales told, Beauty surrounds me as I gaze above, But I am alone for I live without love.

All resonates. The past, the present, and the future. The tales we hear as children—the stories we then pass on—have happened, are happening, or will happen soon enough. If not, then the stories would not exist. They resonate in our hearts because they are true. Even the ones that begin as lies.

Only stories of love pass through our post-mortal filter, yet even then, we are baffled by the intensity of longing and loss that threatens those mortal tales of love.

men showed. I'd grown up on the tales of feuds and clan

I had just heard tales that the Valkyrie were large warriors, akin to Amazons." "If you're the sole survivor of an army attacked by us, are you going to say we had our asses handed to us by petite, nubile females, or by she-monsters who can bench Buicks?

Lullabies for Suffering Tales of Addiction Horror

She remembered a tale she had heard from Old Nan, about how sometimes during a long winter men who'd lived beyond their years would announce that they were going hunting. And their daughters would weep and their sons would turn their faces to the fire, she could hear Old Nan saying, but no one would stop them, or ask what game they meant to hunt, with the snows so deep and the cold wind howling. She wondered what the old Braavosi told their sons and daughters, before they set off.

Too many peoples have traveled back and forth, and too many legends and tales have mingled.

They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi.

The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms.