Quotes About Fantasy

Grandma shrugged. "Framed. A man that pretty can't be a murderer." Mother stared at her. "Penelope, I'm seventy-two years old. You let me enjoy my fantasy.

What kind of a woman greets the Beast Lord with 'here, kitty, kitty'?" he asked.

If I have to murder Hugh, I don't want to do it naked," he said. "It would be weird.

Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips naked at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures.

Sorry to burst your bubble, but that changes nothing. Anytime you say anything, I think about sex. Anytime I see you, I think about sex.

Azdaha were no joke. ... Not much is known about this dragon [the aforementioned Gandarw], except that he apparently had yellow heels. I wonder why that was such an important detail. I mean if I were describing Godzilla, the color of his heels wouldn't be the first thing I would mention.

Roman blinked again and smacked Aspid's nose with his hand. "What did I say about kisses? No kisses unless invited." Aspid's tongue contracted. He pulled Roman into his mouth. I sprinted. "Yes, I love you, too," Roman said from inside the forest of teeth. "I need to go now. Come on." The dragon opened his mouth and put Roman back into the mud.

Besides, dragons kidnap virgins, so I'm out." And why had I just told him I was not a virgin? Why did I even go there? "It doesn't matter if I'm the first. It only matters that I'll be the last.

It's this beautiful thing you can never reach. No matter what you do, you'll never touch it. You can only look and imagine what it would be like to hold it.

If the skies were able to dream, they would dream of dragons.

What do you mean, call your father? Dial his number, use the phone, and ring him up. Ghastek struggled with it for a few seconds. One does not simply ring Roland. Oh boy. I supposed I would get a lecture in the dangers of wandering into Mordor next.

A line from my favorite book came to mind. Have fun storming the castle, Hugh.

I guess Ancient Greeks didn't really have a lot of access to porn so it must've been fun to imagine that every tree hid a meek girl with big boobies.

it exhibited reanimative metamorphosis. It was dead and instead of staying dead, it turned into something else and came back to life. It also went cross-phylum, from mammal to insect. That means there is a good chance it might come back to life again as something really strange, like a terrestrial octopus shooting lightning from its tentacles.

We are all the judges and the judged, victims of the casual malice and fantasy of others, and ready sources of fantasy and malice in our turn. And if we are sometimes accused of sins of which we are innocent, are there not also other sins of which we are guilty and of which the world knows nothing?

It is in the capacity to love, that is to SEE, that the liberation of the soul from fantasy consists. The freedom which is a proper human goal is the freedom from fantasy, that is the realism of compassion. What I have called fantasy, the proliferation of blinding self-centered aims and images, is itself a powerful system of energy, and most of what is often called 'will' or 'willing' belongs to this system. What counteracts the system is attention to reality inspired by, consisting of, love.

I had deluded myself throughout by the idea of reviving a secret love which did not exist at all.

I accused Hartley of being a 'fantasist', or perhaps that was Titus's word, but what a 'fantasist' I have been myself. I was the dreamer, I the magician. How much, I see as I look back, I read into it all, reading my own dream text and not looking at the reality. Hartley had been right when she said of our love that it was not part of the real world. It had no place.

I believe that unfulfilled frustrated people probably spend a lot of their lives in pure fantasy-dreaming. This can I am sure be a great source of consolation though not always harmless.

I mean he's honest , he sees the terrible things, he doesn't try to cover them up or imagine them away — the evil of the world, the senselessness of it all, the rottenness of us ordinary people, our fantasy life, our selfishness —

You daren't think, so you live in a dream.

Brooding about the past is so often fantasy of how one might have won and resentment that one didn't. It is that resentment which one so often mistakes for repentance

We cannot really love the dead. We love a fantasm that secretly consoles. What love sometimes mistakes for death is a kind of intense suffering, a pain that can be endured and absorbed. But the idea of a real ending, that cannot be envisaged . . . Indeed, in the language of love the concept of an ending is devoid of sense. (So we must go beyond love or utterly change it.)

But all this, all this shift and change, thought Bellamy, is part of the vast lie which surrounds me and wherein I move from one fantasy to another. I wanted to escape to solitude and darkness in a holy place, but the dark is just the old dark of meaninglessness and falsehood, which separates me from my friends and from the real world where people love and help each other.