Tales Quotes

“I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

“Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We're in one, of course, but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: "Let's hear about Frodo and the Ring!" And they will say: "Yes, that's one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave, wasn't he, dad?" "Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that's saying a lot."
'It's saying a lot too much,' said Frodo, and he laughed, a long clear laugh from his heart. Such a sound had not been heard in those places since Sauron came to Middle-earth. To Sam suddenly it seemed as if all the stones were listening and the tall rocks leaning over them. But Frodo did not heed them; he laughed again. 'Why, Sam,' he said, 'to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. But you've left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. "I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn't they put in more of his talk, dad? That's what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn't have got far without Sam, would he, dad?"'
'Now, Mr. Frodo,' said Sam, 'you shouldn't make fun. I was serious.'
'So was I,' said Frodo, 'and so I am.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

“Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them.”
― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

“I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space. ”
― Guy de Maupassant

“Don't the great tales never end?"
"No, they never end as tales," said Frodo. "But the people in them come, and go when their part's ended. Our part will end later – or sooner.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

“The grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence. Many politicians promise green, green grass by blending niceties with delusion and by using alluring confidence tricks. They voice attractive tales and tell things, people like to hear. But the post-factual grassland often appears to be parched and barren. ("The grass was greener over there")”
― Erik Pevernagie

“Finally, I’d say to anyone who wants to tell these tales, don’t be afraid to be superstitious. If you have a lucky pen, use it. If you speak with more force and wit when wearing one red sock and one blue one, dress like that. When I’m at work I’m highly superstitious. My own superstition has to do with the voice in which the story comes out. I believe that every story is attended by its own sprite, whose voice we embody when we tell the tale, and that we tell it more successfully if we approach the sprite with a certain degree of respect and courtesy. These sprites are both old and young, male and female, sentimental and cynical, sceptical and credulous, and so on, and what’s more, they’re completely amoral: like the air-spirits who helped Strong Hans escape from the cave, the story-sprites are willing to serve whoever has the ring, whoever is telling the tale. To the accusation that this is nonsense, that all you need to tell a story is a human imagination, I reply, ‘Of course, and this is the way my imagination works.”
― Philip Pullman, Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm: A New English Version

“I'll tell you a secret.

Old storytellers never die.

They disappear into their own story.”
― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

“Then a person has only one tale?”

No, some have two or three separate ones or more,” Fleet said. “Some people have many tales. Sometimes they are linked into one big tale, sometimes they are utterly distinct. Most people do not have one at all.”
― Chris Wooding, Poison

“Those places where sadness and misery abound are favoured settings for stories of ghosts and apparitions. Calcutta has countless such stories hidden in its darkness, stories that nobody wants to admit they believe but which nevertheless survive in the memory of generations as the only chronicle of the past. It is as if the people who inhabit the streets, inspired by some mysterious wisdom, relalise that the true history of Calcutta has always been written in the invisible tales of its spirits and unspoken curses.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Midnight Palace

“We took the path that led others nowhere and only we saw the light at the end of the tunnel. They warned us about the monsters we would encounter, the odds that we would meet. And they laughed when we got the scars while fighting the dragons on our way. When we came back out of the tunnel, holding the sword that they always craved for tightly in our hand. Bleeding and the sun shining on our face. We became the tales they wanted to be. We became the reflections of what they always wanted to see themselves through. We became the warriors they had always imagined of.”
― Akshay Vasu

“Ci chiamano usurpatori, loro, che hanno usurpato ogni speranza per ciascuna generazione a venire, loro che tutto prendono senza nulla chiedere. Noi che abbiamo avuto l’ardire di strappar loro un pezzetto di terra per viverci in pace, loro che la terra la vogliono tutta per farci la guerra. Ci chiamano usurpatori, senza ricordare che i primi usurpatori sono loro, loro che hanno commesso il peccato maggiore, quel peccato che noi cerchiamo di accomodare. Loro hanno strappato la terra alla terra, l’hanno imbrigliata nelle cartine geografiche, stampata sugli stivali e sulle borse, hanno ucciso per mangiare e mangiato per uccidere, senza rispettare nulla che non fosse la loro fame di cibo e di morte. Noi non chiediamo niente, se non di vivere la vita che vogliamo, la vita che lassù non ci permettevano, perché non c’era abbastanza spazio per tutti. Entro il 2015 servivano settantamila dottori, tutti gli altri non servivano a niente. Un tempo, signori, non si era liberi, e si faceva quello che ti dicevano di fare. Adesso si è liberi, così dicono, ma quello che ti dicono lo devi fare lo stesso. Perché se non fai il dottore, allora fai la fame. Se non sei ingegnere, non lavori. Se non t’iscrivi nel ramo dell’industria, uno stipendio poi chi te lo dà. E sbranarsi e sventolare bandiere e strillare come scimmie per un boccone di pensione, quando sei troppo vecchio per gustartela, perché gli anni migliori della tua vita li hai passati a lavorare per loro. Vuoi fare l’insegnante – perché non prendi Farmacia? Vuoi essere archeologo – ma cercati un lavoretto buono. Vuoi scrivere – tanto, se non sei famoso, non ti pubblicano. E soffocare soffocare soffocare le ambizioni perché l’ambizione è peccato e non porta pane, l’ambizione è tempo perso, braccia sottratte alla produzione. E sempre un livore un livore nel petto a fare quel che è giusto fare, ma non quello che si vuol fare. Siamo morti in partenza perché volare basso ci uccide.”
― Chiara Pagliochini, Canto per ingannare l'attesa

“Sometimes as a family we don’t like to talk about it because all this stuff is going through our heads about what could have happened to him. It upsets us because we didn’t want him to suffer. We just want to be told, you know, he died…”
― Nicole Morris, Vanished: True Stories from Families of Australian Missing Persons

“This is a wonderful joke to play upon a prisoner, to promise forgiveness.”
― Dicamillo, Kate

“Fiction gives us a reach into the lives of individuals that would otherwise be but a closed door. If we are gifted with a desire to tell tales, then we should tell them . . . if only to reach but a few.”
― James D. Maxon

“Tarot is always whispering to you. Tarot weaves truth, stories, secrets, and tales. All you need to do is slow down and listen.”
― Sasha Graham, Tarot Diva: Ignite Your Intuition Glamourize Your Life Unleash Your Fabulousity!

“One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.”

“As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,
Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust
Went rushing down the county road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,
Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
These are the tales those merry guests
Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests
Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old,
In idle moments idly told;
Flowers of the field with petals thin,
Lilies that neither toil nor spin,
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse
Hung in the parlor of the inn
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.
Uprose the sun; and every guest,
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed
For journeying home and city-ward;
The old stage-coach was at the door,
With horses harnessed, long before
The sunshine reached the withered sward
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar
Murmured: "Farewell forevermore.
Where are they now? What lands and skies
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?
What hope deludes, what promise cheers,
What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves,
And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look
Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago
Floating and fleeting to and fro,
As in the well-remembered brook
They saw the inverted landscape gleam,
And their own faces like a dream
Look up upon them from below.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Tales of the Wayside Inn"

“Ben invented mathematical theories that even he didn't manage to remember and wrote such bizarre tales of adventure that he ended up destroying them a week after they were finished, embarrassed at the thought that he had penned them.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Midnight Palace

“To safest haven
Through heartfelt lies,
To brighten hopes,
And bless our skies.”
― Hannah Kaner, Faithbreaker

“As twilight's gentle fall descends, where shadows and wind play hide and seek, as day surrenders, the mountains whisper tales.”
― David Passarelli, Mountain poems: Musings on stone, forest, and snow

“I haven't spun any tales.' He paused. 'Yet.'

Casteel's eyes narrowed as he stood beside me. 'How about you keep spinning tales to a minimum?'

'But I've interested in spun tales,' I remarked.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire

“Every grain of sand is a fragment of time, telling tales of the world's ancient history.”
― Aloo Denish Obiero

“Upon setting foot on land, the ferryman warned me I would not have a ride back. The ferryman seemed spooked by the fog. ‘Cursed lands! Cursed lands! Cletus yelled.’ I came to the realization something was wrong with Cletus when I noticed the curvature of the man’s bones. I could not understand what had transpired, for the very air seemed cool. So I shrugged it off and continued my journey past the fog.”
― Marilyn Velez, Tundra: The Darkest Hour

“Legends and mythology have always played a vital role in shaping the identity and cultural heritage of civilizations. The Klassikan Empire is no exception, as it is steeped in a rich tapestry of mythical tales and folklore that have been passed down through generations.”
― Don Santo, Klassik Era: The Genesis

“The thinnest walls are in the biggest houses.”
― Wyatt B. Pringle, Jr.

“We must not weave tales that harm our children; their well-being and future depend on the stories we tell.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya, Slipping into another world

“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

“What are we but stories that touch?”
― Suyi Davies Okungbowa, Lost Ark Dreaming

“There are stories in this world, Omíwálé said. Bigger than you, than all of us in this room, than this tower, than every Child of Yemoja undersea. Stories of civilizations just like yours and mine, fallen because they could not each recognize a world--worlds, even--beyond themselves. Peoples so limited in thinking that they were happy to be subjected to the slim imagination of a few, if only it offered them safety in a world too big for them to comprehend. But it is not for us to understand the vastness of the world. It is for us to understand our place in it.”
― Suyi Davies Okungbowa, Lost Ark Dreaming

“Hundreds of years have passed since his resounding victory. But beware, fair desert folk, for peace is a fragile promise. If you ever come into the desert and hear a voice from your memory offering you your greatest desires, turn away from it. That path is filled with broken and deadly lies.”
― Chelsea Abdullah, The Stardust Thief