Quotes About Fantasy

I am dreaming away my days, restless, never fully awake.

I don't want to be a vampire, she told herself over and over again. But in her dreams, she kind of did.

Even if you are completely delusional, we still have to work out your delusion, right? An imaginary problem needs an imaginary solution.

Let me tell you something about unicorns—they're faeries and faeries aren't to be trusted.

I look to see that it's the worst person possible: Cardan.

Do not fall under Prince Oak's spell,' he warns as the knight climbs up the rocks to us. 'He's not what he seems.

why it's a scary story.

I pictured Locke's heart shot through with an arrow and then shook my head to get rid of the image. It wasn't like me to think things like that. It especially wasn't like me to have a brief jolt of satisfaction from it.

Were you a happy child?' 'I was magic. How could I fail to be?

I like playing pretend with you.

Brambleweft starts to sketch- billowing skirts and cunning little capes, corsets stitched with fanciful creatures. Butterflies alighting along arms and in elaborate headpieces. I am charmed at the alien vision of myself- my corset will have two golden beetles stitched in what looks like a breastplate, with Madoc's moon crest and elaborate swirls of shining thread continuing down my front, and tiny sheer drop sleeves of more gold.

Trees of ice grow blue fruits the size of peaches, encased in a frozen crust. Some have fallen and split open like candy apples. The scent is that of honey and spice and sap. The leaves of the trees give off a haunting sound not unlike wind chimes when the air blows through the branches.

far from Cardan, everything has taken on a tinge of unreality, and I worry that somehow the curse was never broken, that all this is the fantasy of a feverish mind.

Maybe I believe that it's time for Elfhame to be ruled by a queen.

Mortal lives are one long game of make-believe.

I pass trays of spun-sugar animals, little acorn cups filled with wine, enormous sculptures of horn, and a stall where a bent-backed woman takes a brush and draws charms on the soles of shoes. It takes some wandering, but I finally find a collection of sculpted leather masks. They are pinned to a wall and cunningly shaped like the faces of strange animals or laughing goblins or boorish mortals, painted gold and green and every other colour imaginable.

The more horrible the story, the more it is cherished. Faeries may not be able to lie, but stories grow here as they do anywhere, fed on ambition and envy and desire.

There are hobs born with lined faces like tiny, hairless cats and smooth-limbed nixies whose true age shows only in their ancient eyes.

A hob played a lute strung with another reveler's hair.

You may know the Grace kids well, but there is still much tale to tell...

Un libro, en el desván. Trata sobre seres fantásticos, fantásticos pero reales. Fijaos qué feos son.

How does it feel?' he asked. 'To be stuck in a fairy tale?' 'How does it feel to be one?' I countered...

Have you never dreamed of someone coming to you and telling you that you were no mortal child, but one made of magic? Have you never dreamed about being taken from your pathetic little life to one of vast greatness?

The walls shimmer with mica, and the ceiling is all branches and green vines. In the antechamber, the shell of an enormous snail glows, a lamp the size of a small table.