Quotes About Stories

I know they's a lots of things in a family history that just plain aint so. Any family. The stories get passed on and the truth gets passed over. As the saying goes.

Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?

As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.

Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. Because fear kills everything, Mo had once told her. Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

For the hundredth time, she closed her eyes so she could see another room in her mind's eye, one with a curtain full of stars, and a mattress surrounded by books that whispered their stories to her at night. – Pg. 235

Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page any more than they begin on the first page

For Her Ugliness loved stories full of darkness. She didn't want to be told tales of good fortune and beauty, she liked to hear about death, ugly things, secrets heavy with tears. She wanted her very own world, and it had never heard of beauty and good fortune.

No prince had lived in those wretched hovels, no red-robed bishops, only farmers and laborers whose stories no one had written down, and now they were lost, buried under wild thyme and fast growing spurge.

Geschichten haben nie ein Ende, Meggie«, hatte er mal zu ihr gesagt, »auch wenn uns die Bücher das gern vorgaukeln. Die Geschichten gehen immer weiter, sie enden ebenso wenig mit der letzten Seite, wie sie mit der ersten beginnen.«

You know, it's a funny thing about writers. Most people don't stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago—they don't expect to meet them in the street or out shopping. They know their stories but not their names, and certainly not their faces. And most writers like it

Quando ti porti dietro un libro» le aveva rivelato Mo quando Meggie ci aveva messo dentro il primo «avviene qualcosa di straordinario: le sue pagine raccoglieranno i tuoi ricordi. E un giorno ti basterà risfogliarle per tornare con il pensiero al luogo dove le hai lette per la prima volta: le immagini, gli odori, il gelato che ti eri gustata... Credimi, i libri sono un po' come la carta moschicida: a nient'altro i ricordi restano attaccati come alla carta stampata.»

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.

Voglio dire che io fiuto le belle storie a chilometri di distanza. Quindi non tenti di nascondermene una. Sputi fuori, forza, e in cambio si guadagna una fetta di questo fantastico dolce con i buchi - soggiunse in tono scherzoso.

Historier har aldrig nogen slutning, Meggie" havde han engang sagt til hende, "selvom bøgerne gerne vil bilde os det ind. Historierne går altid videre, de slutte lige så lidt på den sidste side, som de begynder på den første.

But the marten laughed. And once again it sounded like an old woman's laughter. All stories end with me, Bluejay, Death said. You will find me everywhere.

They had exchanged sad stories, although both of them longed for one with a happy ending.

Perché gli adulti credevano che i bambini sopportassero meglio i misteri che la verità? Non sapevano quali storie terribili ci si andava a inventare, alle volte, per tentare di capire ciò che i grandi nascondevano?

Las malas historias no despiertan a la vida. No hay ningún Dedo Polvoriento en ellas.

Meggie fand, dass dieses erste Flüstern bei jedem Buch etwas anders klang, je nachdem, ob sie schon wusste, was es ihr erzählen würde, oder nicht.

Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?

I once knew an old man who used to tell stories at night by the fire. Stories about paradise. This is how he described it: carpets of moss, pools of cool water, flowers and sweet berries everywhere, trees growing up to the sky, and the voices of their leaves speaking to the wind above you. Can you hear them?

Some come here to wait for death, others for life to begin at last, others again live only on the stories they are told.

The world around them was as still as if it had used up all the words, as if all the tales there were to tell in this world had now been told.

You do have to listen to the stories, for stories always mean something. The question that worries me is: WHAT exactly do they mean?