Quotes About Myth

Beginning with Santa in infancy, and ending with the Tooth Fairy as the child acquires adult teeth. Or, plainly put, beginning with all the possibility of childhood, and ending with an absolute trust in the national currency.

Some mythological fat asswipe drives our national economy.

People need a monster they can believe in. A true and horrible enemy. A demon to define themselves against. Otherwise, it's just us versus us.

Good and evil have always existed. They always will. It's only our stories about them that ever change.

Si tal vez no necesitáramos de un personaje mítico y salvaje para representar nuestras vidas en proceso de desaparición.

Santa Claus is just a story, says Seth. He's just the opening band to God. There is no Santa Claus.

Where would Jesus be if no one had written the gospels? Four minutes. I tongue the gun barrel into my cheek and say, you want to be a legend, Tyler, man, I'll make you a legend. I've been here from the beginning. I remember everything.

You see, the flowers on cherry trees used to be white. Pure white, like snow. So why do you think cherry blossoms turned that pale crimson shade? It's because they drink the blood from the corpse underneath the tree.

Stern and white as a tomb, older than the memory of the dead, and built by men or devils beyond the recording of myth, is the mansion in which we dwell.

although myth may be romanticized and woefully short of fact, it must, by definition, have some foundation in lost happenings.

The first question, of course, is whether there ever was such a creature as Man. At the moment, in the absence of positive evidence, the sober consensus must be that there was not, that Man, as presented in the legend, is a figment of folklore invention. Man may have risen in the early days of Doggish culture as an imaginary being, a sort of racial god, on which the Dogs might call for help, to which they might retire for comfort.

But history was something that you couldn't trust. It was put together wrong, or copied wrong, or misinterpreted, or improved upon by a man with a misplaced imagination. Truth was so hard to keep, myth and fable so easy to breathe into a life that was more acceptable than truth.

There is a myth I grew up with and heard so many times that I had believed it. They say money doesn't buy you happiness. This is a delusion the poor cling to and the rich find comical. Money does buy happiness. Money equals freedom, the highest form of happiness. Money equals pleasure. The more you have the more pleasurable life is. People with money can never know what it is like to be without money. Money is a magnet, it doesn't trickle down, it is sucked up.

Women had always existed: they had lived, a species to themselves, with the demons. But they had wanted playmates: and together they had made men. What an error, what a cataclysmic miscalculation.

Legends are not born or made, they just are.

Reminds me of that urban legend about hearing voices in the white noise of a television tuned to a station that's off the air

As late as 1701, a Bordeaux ship's captain was able to persuade his employers that he had lost his cargo off Newfoundland to a fire-breathing dragon looming out of the deep.

A nation is bound not only by the real past, but the stories it tells itself: by what it remembers, and what it forgets.

The plastic-covered notebooks were candy-colored and palm-size, brimming with the characters and arcana of a prosperous and long-standing children's entertainment combine. The creation myth of the product line concerned the adventures of a clever, effeminate armadillo and his cohort of resourceful desert critters.

It was that time of the century when the idea of a gentleman had almost become myth. The Great War had concussed the world. The unbearable news of sixteen million deaths rolled off the great metal drums of the newspapers. Europe was a crucible of bones.

Once upon a time and long ago, in fact so long ago that I couldn't have been there, and I wasn't there, but I'll tell you anyways: once upon a time and long ago...

Great novels are above all great fairy tales . . . literature does not tell the truth but makes it up.

All great novels are great fairy tales.

Van... even then, at fourteen, recognized that the old myths, which willed into helpful being a whirl of worlds (no matter how silly and mystical) and situated them within the gray matter of the star-suffused heavens, contained, perhaps, a glowworm of strange truth. His nights in the hammock... were now haunted not so much by the agony of his desire for Ada, as by that meaningless space overhead, underhead, everywhere, the demon counterpart of divine time...