Quotes About Escape

He will not succeed in this, Taran said. Somehow, we must find a way to escape. We dare not lose hope. I agree absolutely, Fflewddur answered. Your general idea is excellent; it's only the details that are lacking...

But each time a child opens a book, he pushes open the gate that separates him from Elsewhere.

He knew that he had the remaining hours of night before they would be aware of his escape. So he rode hard, steadily, willing himself not to tire as the minutes and miles passed. There had been no time to receive the memories he and The Giver had counted on, of strength and courage. So he relied on what he had, and hoped it would be enough.

I'm grateful to you, Jonas, because without you I would never have figured out a way to bring about the change. But your role now is to escape. And my role is to stay.

And he had taken Gabriel, too.

Together the fugitives slept though the first dangerous day.

A man who had, as an adult, fled the cult in which he had been raised, told me that his psychiatrist had recommended The Giver to him.

How had he rehearsed this vitally-important, utterly-critical meeting, again? Mother, Father, let me introduce -- she's getting away!

I know what the value [of storytelling] is to me -- varied and huge, giving me everything from delight, to knowledge, to access to friends and colleagues, a desirable identity through valued work, escape from pain, and a steady income. Not bad, for something so intangible as making and selling dream-by-number kits.

Do you remember," Ivan sighed, "that time in the back garden at Vorkosigan House, when you'd been reading all those military histories about the Cetagandan prison camps during the invasion, and you decided we had to dig an escape tunnel? Except it was you who did all the designing, and me and Elena who did all the digging?

So"—Miles swallowed—"what happens now, sirs? Will I be charged with high treason?" "For the second time in four years?" said Illyan. "Hell, no. I'm not going through that again. I will simply disappear you, until this blows over. Where to, I haven't quite figured yet. Kyril Island is out.

Each box contained one of the following: live, venomous, agitated snakes on the verge of escape; quiescent venomous snakes; nonvenomous garden snakes; dead snakes; or things that looked like snakes but weren't, such as large, sluggish worms.

When it's dark I'll sneak down the hill, he promised himself. Somehow Bree will slip over the side of the ship. Somehow I'll get her away without anyone knowing. We'll escape together. As he reached another clump

That's the beauty of a book—through its characters, you can imagine your life outside your life.

Agora, eu ia arrastado, nesta fuga em massa, para a morte em comum, para o fogo… Isto vinha das profundezas mais recônditas e tinha acontecido.

I'm sorry! I really am! I wanted to get out of this place! I want to live! I want to get away from here and never see it again! I hate everything about it! You will hate the next place, too, I said. What you are you will carry with you.

It has often been said that we have but one life to live; that is nonsense. If one reads fiction he or she can live a thousand lives, in many parts of the world or in outer space.

If one has a book, Mr. Boone, One is never alone. They will talk to you when you want to listen, and when you tire of what they are saying, you just close the book. It will be waiting for you when you come back to it.

Not even a marshrat will trust itself to one hole only, so always have an escape route, and more than one, if it can be.

No matter how miserable it may be, one's own home is a haven. To step through the door, drop into a familiar chair, and sleep in one's own bed is vastly comfortable. It is an escape from the world outside. It represents safety, security. Once inside the door, one can lay down the burdens of the world and relax. In a larger sense, our three-dimensional

and best of all, the wilderness of books, in which she could wander, where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her.

and Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.

The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm.

When the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh.