Quotes About Storytelling

With Cosette's garter, Homer would make the Iliad. He would put into his poem an old babbler like me, and he would call him Nestor.

Men tell stories", I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. "Women get on with it.

Make her tell you the story of the peasant girl and the prince." As he said it, he closed his eyes again, and his breathing turned wheezy. "All of it this time." "I know what you're thinking, Dad. Her stories used to bring us together. For a while, I even thought . . . but I was wrong. She won't—" "Just try, okay? You've never heard it all.

Men tell stories," I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. "Women get on with it. For us

Men tell stories. Women get on with it.

Let them believe that the fairy tales were the fiction, and that everything else was real.

Remember that you control what you choose to believe in," I said. Anyone could look at our farm lives and see toil and squalor, or look at the same lives and see purpose, abundance, and joy. Same plot points, different story. "Very different things can be true simultaneously, and choosing the one with the better narrative is often extremely helpful.

Some people are story collectors. While others collect seashells, or stuffed animals, or stamps, story collectors wrap themselves in words, surround themselves with sentences, and play with participle, even those pesky, perky dangling ones. They climb over Cs and mount Ms and lounge in Ls. Soon enough they land in the land of homonyms, then, wham! They stumble into onomatopoeia, that lovely creaking, booming bit of wordplay - and that, Dear Friend, is where our story begins.

He rolled his eyes. "Fiction lies for the truth.

Fiction is very, very important," he said, his voice is rising. "Storytelling is how people learn. You get people to understand new cultures and other lives through stories. Made-up stories. Fiction.

Anyhow, my point is that you know now that nonfiction is never the entire truth, and fiction is almost never pure fabrication.

J.R.R. Tolkien, had it right in the lecture he gave just after he published The Hobbit. "Fantasy," he said in 1939, talking about fantastical prose fiction, "is a natural human activity. It certainly does not destroy or even insult Reason; and it does not either blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of, scientific verity. On the contrary. The keener and the clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make.

I really haven't had that exciting of a life. There are a lot of things I wish I would have done, instead of just sitting around and complaining about having a boring life. So I pretty much like to make it up. I'd rather tell a story about somebody else.

I really haven't had that exciting of a life. There are a lot of things I wish I would have done, instead of just sitting around and complaining about having a boring life. So I pretty much like to make it up. I'd rather tell a story about somebody else.

Words made faerie tales.

Now he wanted that which had always been my own—my story. Tell

Telling a story is like sowing a seed—you always hope to see it become a beautiful tree, with firm roots and branches that soar up in the sky. But it is a peculiar sowing, for you will never know whether your seed sprouts or dies. Later

He, too, wanted to tell the story of our adventure in his own way. Praise

You're a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable," she pleaded. "Something beautiful and full of monsters." "Beautiful and full of monsters?" "All the best stories are.

As for Ellai, she told her sister what had passed, and Nitid wept, and her tears fell to earth and became chimaera, children of regret...

There were no books to hide behind, and no shadows—only Lazlo Strange in his worn gray robes, with his nose that had been broken by fairy tales, looking like the hero of no story ever told. Or. No story yet told.

the air seeming to gather around her like held breath. As if this whole place were a story about her.

singing ballads whose words had never known paper but lived only on the rasping edge of their own voices.

the stories poured from him, and Lazlo listened. He listened the way a cactus drinks rain. In