Quotes About Story

But that is another story and shall be told another time.

You should be writing for the love of the story, and when it comes time to return to the manuscript, everything else belongs behind a closed door.

The very ink with which all history is written is merely fluid prejudice.

The face of the water, in time, became a wonderful book- a book that was a dead language to the uneducated passenger, but which told its mind to me without reserve, delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered them with a voice. And it was not a book to be read once and thrown aside, for it had a new story to tell every day.

Now, then, that is the tale. Some of it is true.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the West at the period of this story—that is to say, thirty or forty years ago.

persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

I began to feel that the old Venice of song and story had departed forever. But I was too hasty. In a few minutes we swept gracefully out into the Grand Canal, and under the mellow moonlight the Venice of poetry and romance stood revealed.

I had one woman come up to me in a bookstore and say, 'You know, everyone told me it was a horror book, but when I finished it, I realized that it was a love story.' And she's absolutely right. In some ways, genre is a marketing tool.

To repeat: her voice has life. It possesses a quality not present in the original, revealing how a nymph can return a different and more meaningful story, in spite of telling the same story.

Immensely clever story, and quite creepy, in a delightfully scary way.

I also think it's somewhat of a relief not to hear the true story. I mean you look at the horror . . . and you have to take a deep breath and ask yourself, do I really want to know what happened there? In my experience, most people don't. They usually look away.

It's a small story really, about, among other things: * A girl * Some words * An accordionist * Some fanatical Germans * A Jewish fist fighter * And quite a lot of thievery

Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don't have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me. There are many things to think of. There is much story.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

The book thief has struck for the first time – the beginning of an illustrious career.

Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.

Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.

She didn't see him watching as he played, having no idea that Hans Hubermann's accordion was a story. In the times ahead, that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours of morning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It would carry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story. Story within story.

He was a great horse," she went on, "and the perfect story—we wouldn't love him so much if he'd lived.

Cuando empezó a escribir su historia, se preguntó por el momento exacto en que los libros y las palabras no sólo comenzaban a tener algún significado, sino que lo significaban todo.

I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.

When death tells a story yo really have to listen