Quotes About Magic

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

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

I remember his definition of magic vividly: "the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with will.

She didn't have to command me, Jude. She didn't have to use any magic. I trust you. I trusted you.

Faeries make up for their inability to lie with a panoply of deceptions and cruelties.

You're the sister who spits out toads and snakes. I'm the sister who spits out rubies and diamonds.

The whole places looks straight out of a fairy tale, the kind where love is a simple thing, never the cause of pain.

Tiernan pulls a leg off the rat and chews on it delicately, while Oak helps himself to a slice of melon. I eat one of the doughnuts. "I see you there, you unnatural creature," the Thistlewitch informs me. I narrow my eyes at her. She's probably angry I took a doughnut.

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

But All I Am Is Magic. Unmagic. I Am Not Nothing. I Am What Is Beyond Nothing. Annihilation. I Am The Unraveler. I Can Pull Apart Magic With A Thought.

Eldred cups his hands, and the branches of the throne shudder and begin to grow, sending up new green shoots to spiral into the air, leaves unfurling and flower buds bursting along the length of them. The roots of the ceiling begin to worm, lengthening like vines and crawling across the underside of the hill. There is a scent in the air, like a summer breeze, heavy with the promise of apples.

He doesn't fall like the others. Instead of blood pouring from his wound, red moths stream out, in to the air. They rush out of him so quickly that in a moment, the High King's body is gone and there are just those red moths, swirling up in to the air in a vast cloud, a tornado of soft wings. But whatever magic made them does not last. They begin to fall until they are scattered across the dais like blown leaves. The High King Eldred is, impossibly, dead.

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.

Recuerdo vivamente su definición de magia: es "la ciencia y el arte de hacer que un cambio ocurra en conformidad con la voluntad".

He does not seem like someone who has been carrying poisoned spies through the snow, someone who has braved an enemy camp. Someone who pushed his magical cloak into my hands. He seems like the person who shoved me into the water and laughed when it closed over my head. Who tricked me.

Behind him comes an ice coach pulled by faerie horses as crystalline as if they were conjured by frozen waves.

I am in a gown of deep forest green with crow feathers covering the shoulders and sleeves, while Cardan wears a doublet ornamented with bright beetle wings.

Psychics were therapists for people who couldn't admit they needed therapy. They were magic for people who desperately needed a little magic, back before magic was real.

The braided weeds and briars of her hair fall around her, serving as a cape. Large black eyes peer out from the tangle. She wears a gown of drab cloth and bark. When she moves, I see her feet are bare. Rings shine on several of her toes.

To family and Faerieland and pizza and stories and new beginnings and scheming great schemes.

Behind the abandoned house, two faerie horses chew on dandelions as they wait for their riders. Slight as deer, with a soft halo of light surrounding their bodies, they glide between the trees like ghosts. Oak goes to the first. Her coat a soft grey, her mane braided into something that looks like netting, and which is hung with gold beads. Tooled leather saddlebags rest against her flanks. She nuzzles into his hand.

Holly Black, Cassandra Clare

There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover's whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.