Quotes About Stories

My dad was a big admirer of Sergeant York stories from the First World War.

All family stories are important, just as all people are important, and they deserve to be passed along.

If history only remembers one in a thousand of us, then that future will be filled with stories of who we were and what we did.

I never liked telling war stories. Some men love to tell them. Hell, some men need to. They need to convince themselves that the war is over. But I'm not one of them.

The whole world had changed. Only the fairy tales remained the same.

All of us are made up of the stories that we listen to, the ones we disagree with and the ones that we agree with.

So that the lover of myths, which are a compact of wonders, is by the same token a lover of wisdom.

The point is, stories can be all lengths. Never underestimate the power of "less is more.

The world would be a very sad place if readers could only love one story.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

My father used to say that stories are part of the most precious heritage of mankind.

My father never told us how the stories worked. He didn't reveal the layers, the nuggets of information, the fragments of truth and fantasy. He didn't need to -- because, given the right conditions, the stories activated, sowing themselves.

In the moment when that glass passed from his hand to mine, something sent up a high wild warning cry in the back of my mind. Persephone's irrevocable pomegranate seeds, Never take food from strangers; old stories where one sip or bite seals the spellbound walls forever, dissolves the road home into mist and blows it away on the wind.

Then I sit there, running the heat to try and thaw my feet after Lucy's flat, and watch the people going past. They make me edgy. Dozens and dozens of people, they just keep coming, and every single one of their heads is crammed with stories they believe and stories they want to believe and stories someone else has made them believe, and every story is battering against the thin walls of the person's skull, drilling and gnawing for its chance to escape and attack someone

Dozens and dozens of people, they just keep coming, and every single one of their heads is crammed with stories they believe and stories they want to believe and stories someone else has made them believe, and every story is battering against the thin walls of the person's skull, drilling and gnawing for its chance to escape and attack someone else, bore its way in and feed off that mind too.

Though we come and go, and pass into the shadows, where we leave behind us stories told — on paper, on the wings of butterflies, on the wind, on the hearts of others — there we are remembered, there we work magic and great change — passing on the fire like a torch — forever and forever. Till the sky falls, and all things are flawless and need no words at all.

We withdraw from our experience of the present moment. We pull away from the raw feelings of fear and shame by incessantly telling ourselves stories about what is happening in our life.

When we get lost in our stories, we lose touch with our actual experience.

If we bring a steady attention to the immediate physical experience of an emotion, past sensations and stories linked to it that have been locked in our body and mind are "de-repressed.

Christmas and ghosts have a long association, and one that may have its roots in Britain rather than the Continent. Families and friends would gather around the fire on Christmas Eve after tiring of charades and other games and start the serious business of the evening: telling creepy stories as gaslights cast long shadows in a dark room.

against the backdrop of his famous ghost story. Christmas and ghosts have a long association, and one that may have its roots in Britain rather than the Continent. Families and friends would gather around the fire on Christmas Eve after tiring of charades and other games and start the serious business of the evening: telling creepy stories as gaslights cast long shadows in a dark room.

And this is how it started. Just with coffee and the exchange of their long stories. Love can be incremental. Predicaments, too. Coffee can start a life just as it can start a day. This was the meeting of two people who were destined to love from before they were born, from before they made choices that would complicate their lives. This love just rolled toward my mother as though she were standing at the bottom of a steep hill. Mother had no hand in this, only heart.

Having room to run and having just the space to use your imagination and create stories out of everyday life, I think that had a lot to do with me wanting write. And write songs

But no matter what love throws at you, you have to believe in it. You have ot believe in love stories and prince charmings and happily ever after. That's why I write these songs. Because I think love is FEARLESS.