Symbolic Quotes

“I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.”
― Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

“as soon as we renounce fiction and illusion, we lose reality itself; the moment we subtract fictions from reality, reality itself loses its discursive-logical consistency.”
― Slavoj Žižek, Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology

“Don't confuse the teacher with the lesson, the ritual with the ecstasy, the transmitter of the symbol with the symbol itself.”
― Neil Gaiman, Stardust

“What he realised, and more clearly as time went on, was that money-worship has been elevated into a religion. Perhaps it is the only real religion-the only felt religion-that is left to us. Money is what God used to be. Good and evil have no meaning any longer except failure and success. Hence the profoundly significant phrase, to make good. The decalogue has been reduced to two commandments. One for the employers-the elect, the money priesthood as it were- 'Thou shalt make money'; the other for the employed- the slaves and underlings'- 'Thou shalt not lose thy job.' It was about this time that he came across The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and read about the starving carpenter who pawns everything but sticks to his aspidistra. The aspidistra became a sort of symbol for Gordon after that. The aspidistra, the flower of England! It ought to be on our coat of arms instead of the lion and the unicorn. There will be no revolution in England while there are aspidistras in the windows.”
― George Orwell, Keep the Aspidistra Flying

“What's it like here?
There's a biscuit factory next door. We get the broken ones.”
― Hiedi Thomas Jennifer Worth

“Personal pleasures were like drying flowers, best kept away from the light to preserve their vibrance.”
― I.V. Ophelia, The Poisoner

“Our cake represents the best our families' bakeries Salt and Sugar have to offer," Pedro says, addressing the audience. "Two layers. There's the savory, nourishing quality of Parmesan corn and the sweetness of a guava-drizzled cake that's a reinterpretation of bolo de rolo. Two flavors that are dominant by themselves, meeting to complement each other." He points at each layer. "Salt and Sugar. Just like our families' bakeries."
The judge smiles. "Thank you, kids. And what do you call your cake?"
I meet Pedro's eyes. Deciding on the name wasn't hard. But saying it out loud in front of our families could go either way.
"Romário and Julieta," we say in unison.”
― Rebecca Carvalho, Salt and Sugar

“He fed the meter, and we walked the short distance to Hannibal's Kitchen, which was famous for its soul food.
It was crowded, but we only had to wait fifteen minutes to be seated. Having Dante cook for us spoiled me, but I was always down to try another Gullah-Geechee soul food spot. I ordered the crab and shrimp fried rice and shark steak. Quinton had the rice with oxtails but then begged until I gave him some of my fish.
Once we left, we went down East Bay to King Street, stopped in a bookstore, and walked through the City Market. Quinton picked up a pound cake from Fergie's Favorites, and I picked out a beautiful bouquet of flowers fashioned from sweetgrass. Sweetgrass symbolized harmony, love, peace, strength, positivity, and purity. I needed any symbol of those things that I could get. I also thought they'd be a nice peace offering for Mariah. I'd give her a few.
We walked to Kaminsky's for dessert. I had their berry cobbler with ice cream. It was served in the ceramic dish it was baked in. I liked the coziness of eating out of a baking dish. The ice cream tasted homemade. The strawberry syrup exploded on my tongue. I didn't make pies, so whenever I had dessert out, I got pie. Quinton had his favorite milkshake and took key lime pie and bourbon pecan pie to go for his mother.”
― Rhonda McKnight, Bitter and Sweet

“The maze reappeared, in ghostly blue this time, the pellets punctuated by countless miniature foods--- not only fruits but pixelated pizza slices, tiny sushi rolls, petite hamburgers. Ms. Pac-Man faded onto the screen, not in the bottom half, where she usually started, but in the central box, where the ghosts usually did. Instead of her trademark yellow, she appeared blinking, in blue.
"She's--- she's one of the ghosts?"
Maura took up the controls again. Kostya watched her move through the maze, eating everything in sight.
"It's a secret level," Maura told him. "Only available in the 1983 rerelease of the Japanese cabinet. It's called the Hungry Ghost Maze."
"So it's a bonus round? The point's just to... get more points?"
"The points don't matter in the ghost realm. To clear this level, you have to find the Happy Meal. Hidden in one of these fruits is a portal that gets you back to the real world.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“In sumptuous waves of self-knowledge, the realms of the mythical, imaginary, symbolic, and material collide and collapse into each other.”
― Rajinder Jhol, Shine

“It feels sacrilegious to have his hands upon me, a travesty. I want to cut them off at the wrist, could hang them from the ceiling, an art installation to go among the classic brothel art, dismembered body parts casting shadows on the pastel nudes and yonic oils.”
― Tilly Lawless, Nothing but My Body

“My eyes flickered toward the kitchen window. There she was, a large blue dragonfly (une libellule), zipping around in the blue sky, soaring and diving, never crashing down. These beautiful insects were the reason my grand-mère named the restaurant Les Libellules. I knew she wasn't the same one my grand-mère had discovered when she'd found her inspiration, but part of me wanted to believe that this marvelous creature, its iridescent wings sparkling in the sunlight, embodied her spirit, and the crazy notion that she was checking in on me bolstered my confidence.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“Moss was one of those things that, once one was aware of it, was everywhere. She knew its subspecies from botanical books: bearded moss, bog moss, grizzled emerald, twisted moss. Reindeer moss. Emerald tufted stubble. Toothless moss. Maidenhair. Wooly fringe. It was the earth's pantry, feeding its surroundings. Expansive green mother. Lavender recalled one species in her own garden that, to the touch, felt like her mother's hair. Mother-hair moss. In a floriography book, Lavender had read that moss stood for motherhood, charity. All the more to adore.
She perused the ground, found:
pocket moss
pincushion bristle
wasted-tea moss
stubble-on-a-boy's-chin moss
prickly oracle moss
heart's tussle

Oh, the tales moss told.”
― Jeanette Lynes, The Apothecary's Garden

“How about this one?" I pointed to a graceful, feathery vine with small, delicate, star-shaped red blooms.
"That's a cypress vine," he said. "Ipomoea quamoclit. It's an escapee and not native to her garden. People think it's an annual, but with a little help from nature, it's self-seeding ability means it can pop up in new places year after year and thrive far away from its original home."
Something niggled at the back of my mind. If the vine could escape and start over again somewhere new, why couldn't a person? If Jack's grandmother's plants were strong enough to survive neglect, why couldn't I?”
― Sara Desai, To Have and to Heist

“I mean, who even are the English? The descendants of the Germanic tribes? We're a great hotchpotch really, aren't we? A mishmash of Celts, Anglo-Saxons, Danes, Normans, et cetera, et cetera, to a complicatedly hybrid ancestry, barely united for centuries, and our borders always shifting. We're not a pure, homogenous race sprung from English soil, are we? When people talk about Englishness, I often get a whiff of frowsty Victorian velvet," she mused, articulating more expansively with her hands as she warmed to her theme. "It makes me think of paintings of King Alfred, Ivanhoe and Tennyson, people putting on dressing-up clothes to do archery, and William Morris tapestries. Perhaps Englishness is less about geography and historical dates and more about symbols and emotions? There are lots of tripwires and misty hollows between the lions and unicorns, aren't there? When you begin to think about what Englishness means--- and, by extension, English food--- it all starts to become rather precarious and complicated, doesn't it?”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“We'd hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped, pointing to the garden to our right.
"Henry!" she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored flowers, with dark purple centers.
Bee looked astonished. "How did they... where did they come from?"
Henry shook his head. "I noticed them two weeks ago. They just appeared."
Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face, she offered an explanation. "They're wood violets," she said. "I haven't seen them on the island since..."
"They're very rare," Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. "You can't plant them, for they won't grow. They have to choose you."
Bee's eyes met Henry's, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. "Evelyn has a theory about these flowers," she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. "Yes," she said, the memory in plain view. "She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.
It's ridiculous, isn't it, Henry, to think that violets can know," Bee continued.
Henry nodded. "Harebrained," he said in agreement.
Bee shook her head in disbelief. "And to see them in bloom, in March of all months..."
Henry nodded. "I know."
Neither took their eyes off the petals before them, so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“The wisteria looked bare and vulnerable clinging to the arbor, but somewhere deep inside its branches was the promise of spring, and when I looked closely, I saw a few pale green shoots emerging from the trunk.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Four-leaf clovers," she said. "I've been finding them everywhere, in the oddest places."
Star stepped out of the garden bed and gently plucked the clover from Georgia's hand, pinching it between her fingers. "Well, look at that," she said softly. She glanced at Georgia. "My grandma Emma was Irish, raised near Galway---that's where our red hair comes from--- and she loved four-leaf clovers. Always felt they connected her with the country of her birth.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“What are you trying to tell me?" she repeated, picking up the little clover stem from the edge of her plate and twirling it between her fingers. She thought of what Star had told her about her gift, that she brought clarity to people with her cooking. Would it work for her? Could she bring clarity to her own heart?
On impulse, she pulled off the four leaves of the clover and sprinkled them over the omelet. Why not give it a try? Clover was edible, with a slightly lemony flavor. Not a terribly appealing plant to eat, but tolerable in small quantities.
"Today I ask for faith, hope, love, and luck," she whispered, not at all sure this was going to work. "Please show me what I need to see." As she spoke the words, she realized she was not petitioning Julia but speaking to the island, to the Stevens women--- Star and Emma and Helen--- and to her own heart. She didn't know who or what was sending her these signs in the form of four-leaf clovers. Perhaps it was the island as Star suspected, or the universe, or Emma and Helen. The origin was a mystery, and in a way, the source didn't really matter. She just wanted to know what it all meant. What were the four-leaf clovers trying to reveal to her?”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“I love you too," she whispered. The miserable sheen of quietness and the guilt that stood prolific within it had been fractured. Whatever silence had strewn the distance between us was broken, like the dusting of cobwebs off the mantlepiece of our marriage. In my grief, and in my relief, I held tight to the hope of a future glistering gold.”
― M.D. Eaton, And I Heard the Mourner Say

“The profound symbolism of the eye [is] as the bridge between the light you can see and the light that burns within you.”
― Suzanne Giesemann, The Awakened Way: Making the Shift to a Divinely Guided Life

“An assortment of tea and sweets is laid out. Only the owner of Petals Tea Shop could arrange such a charming display. A smattering of preserves and jams in heart-shaped dishes are nestled between the crooks of crumpets, scones, and other pastries garnished with lavender. Laina grabs a Danish with buttercream frosting dripping from a flaky crescent roll. Crumbles of brown sugar tumble off as she takes a bite.
I pour a dash of cream into a teacup. The milk feathers out like a lotus blossom. In China, where my father is from, the lotus symbolizes honesty, goodness, and beauty.”
― Kiana Krystle, Dance of the Starlit Sea

“Autumn has come, bringing its blood-drop berries, its acorns and walnuts, its spiders' webs. The sap is falling, as the trees draw their nutrients back inside, readying themselves for their long, enchanted sleep, whilst their leaves--- which in their youth were simply green--- each seem to become unique, in their last hours: blotched, spotted, blush-tipped, pocked, crinkled; the colors of gingerbread, bearskin, pumpkin, ram's fur, porridge, a bloodstained key.”
― Clare Pollard, The Modern Fairies

“I grabbed one of the plants he had given me and shoved it into his hands. "Take it. I killed it. Just like you killed our relationship by never being there when I needed you. Just like you killed it again by asking me to meet you so you could get your revenge. Good-bye."
"It's not dead," he pointed out. "It just needs a little love."
"Then give it to Clare."
"She's not a loving type. She's an evil, using, betraying, double-crossing type. Not like you, sweetheart."
"Don't sweetheart me," I snapped. "Your fake seduction won't work here. Clearly, the only thing that is a danger to me is you.”
― Sara Desai, 'Til Heist Do Us Part

“The moon can only shine so bright, which is why it needs the stars to help it.”
― Daniel Varona, Shadows of Reality

“We always think the world will end in fire or thunder — but sometimes, it ends with a whisper.”
― S. Thorn, Apocalypse Never

“Soigne: Pronounced swan-yay, it is French for "elegant."
It is/was used to describe an exceptionally sexy, well-presented dish, but quickly devolved from trendy to dated and pretentious.”
― Terri-Lynne DeFino, Didn't You Use to Be Queenie B?

“I turned to my kitchen to put the final touch on my dish--- a splash of black aged vinegar to the broth. The acidity provided a better balance in the overall flavor. Black pieces of the desert silkie floated like ebony islands against the rich cinnabar shade of the hot pot broth. Amidst the bubbling broth, the vegetables--- deep green leaves with orange, dark pink, and light green blossoms--- created a kaleidoscope of tropical colors.
It told a visual story of Lupong surrounded by the turbulent Singing Sea--- how the humble Peninsula was a vibrant place, despite the Continent's view that it was a desolate backwater. It was the defiant testament that we existed. Our sovereignty was important, and the Empress had no right to invade our land and our home. This dish was a reminder that winning the peaches of immortality would mean freedom for the Peninsula. I wanted the Empress to eat my defiance.”
― Roselle Lim, Celestial Banquet

“It's going to be fun," Terlu said.
He snorted, but then he smiled and held out the half-finished icing rose. "Taste?"
"You're supposed to be making them for the feast. I can't---"
He popped it in her mouth.
It melted and flavor burst from it. She'd expected pure sugar, but what she tasted was strawberries and vanilla--- it was a bite of spring. "Oh! How did you do that?"
"Each color rose is going to have a different flavor."
"You're brilliant."
He blushed. "I'm glad you like it. I'm going to put them all over the sugar glass, to symbolize the cracks that the plants healed."
"Sounds beautiful.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Enchanted Greenhouse

“Snowbound Condemnation by Stewart Stafford

My vigil for a shabby scarecrow,
Cruciform in a snowdrift field,
Its saviour-suited arms clawing
At corvids, frozen heels to Heaven.

Its mouth a wailing O-shape,
Lamenting deafened ears of corn,
Resuscitation for a fool's errand,
In a hysterical chorus of biting gales.

Haunting a sycamore tree, complicit,
I witnessed desolation's spectacle,
Half-expecting a condemned miracle,
This pilgrim genuflected into green slush.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford