Quotes About Enchantment

Charm is getting people to say yes without ever having to ask them a question.

I have gazed so much on beauty that my eyes overflow with it.

What a man seeks is beauty, plain and simple. No other way to put it. The rustle of her clothes, her scent. The sweep of her hair across his naked stomach ( . . . ) That the man knows not how to even name that which enslaves him hardly lightens his burden.

Words,words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.

Breath the words and they will come to life; as of words of magic

with every new day, Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as spider's webs and enchantingly beautiful

Although we may wish for it, true magic is a scary thing.

I know you all think I'm a magician, but I'm not. The magic comes out of the books themselves, and I have no more idea than you or any of your men how it works.

Vielleicht war er ja noch da, irgendwo hinter ihren geschlossenen Lidern, vielleicht klebte ja noch etwas Glueck an ihren Wimpern, wie Goldstaub. Liessen Traeume in den Maerchen nicht manchmal so ertwas zurueck?

Molotov explained how that book, should one be foolish enough to open it, gave the power to read things and creatures out of any book in the world.

He bent down and lifted Sophie from his pocket… . She was still in her nightie and her feet were bare. She shivered and stared around her at the swirling mists and ghostly vapors. "Where are we?" she asked. "We is in Dream Country," the BFG said. "This is where all dreams is beginning." Roald Dahl, The BFG

I'm only a kind of book doctor. I can give books new bindings, rejuvenate them a little, stop the bookworms from eating them, and prevent them from losing their pages over the years like a man loses his hair. But inventing the stories in them, filling new, empty pages with right words-- I can't do that. That's a very different trade. A famous writer once wrote, 'An author can be seen as three things: a storyteller, a teacher, or magician-- but a magician, the enchanter, is in the ascendant.

Lì i libri erano ammassati dappertutto. Non erano solo sugli scaffali come nelle altre case, no: da loro erano accatastati sotto i tavoli, sulle sedie, negli angoli più remoti. Ce n'erano in cucina e in bagno, sul televisore e nell'armadio; pile basse e pile alte. Grossi, piccoli, vecchi, nuovi... libri e ancora libri. Accoglievano Meggie sulla tavola apparecchiata per la colazione, invitanti; l'aiutavano a scacciare la noia... e qualche volta la mandavano lunga distesa per terra!

Come Mo aveva detto un giorno, scrivere storie, in fin dei conti, ha un po' a che fare con la magia.

An author can be seen as three things: a storyteller, a teacher or a magician – but the magician, the enchanter is in the ascendant.

The Dark Fairy touched her chest. No heart, like her sisters. So where did the love come from?

Goblins burrowed in the earth, elves sang songs in the trees: those were the obvious wonders of reading, but behind them lay the fundamental marvel that, in stories, words could command things to be. Francis Spufford, The Child That Books Built

Let us use our magic and enchantments to conjure up a woman out of flowers." … Math and Gwydyon took the flowers of oak and broom and meadowsweet and from these conjured up the loveliest and most beautiful girl anyone had seen; they baptized her with the form of baptism that was used then, and named her Blodeuedd. "Math Son of Mathonwy," from The Mabinogion, translated by Jeffrey Gantz

But to the last question," Zelig replied, "he probably flew to beyond the Dark Regions, where people don't go and cattle don't stray, where the sky is copper, the earth iron, and where the evil forces live under roofs of petrified toadstools and in tunnels abandoned by moles." Isaac Bashevis Singer, Naftali the Storyteller and His Horse, Sus

Witches' feet make no footprint. Witches' bodies make no shadows. But they make the trees, the land, the moss, A little colder as they pass.

There is a sixth sense . . . that is the sense of wonder.

She lowered her eyes, and suddenly saw the fox. He was looking up at her. Her chin was pressed down, and his eyes were looking up. They met her eyes. And he knew her. She was spellbound — she knew he knew her. So he looked into her eyes, and her soul failed her. He knew her, he was not daunted.

We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.

You must remember that here in Norway we are used to that sort of thing. There are witches everywhere.