Belive you me, this maze is a labrinth!
Belive you me, this maze is a labrinth!
Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?
Hope. Nothing is more intoxicating.
How fast the ears learned to tell what sounds meant, much faster than it took the eyes to decipher written words.
In love - it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn't that just how it sometimes felt?
Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness.
Orpheus. Had the name he had taken ever suited him better? But he would be wilier than the singer whose name he had stolen. He would indeed. He would send another man into the realm of Death in the Fire-Dancer's place-and he'd make sure that he didn't come back.
She had found him and was bringing back his thanks. Nor did she forget to mention that he had assured her that she was indeed the most beautiful fairy he had ever set eyes on.
She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn't taste bad, but she was still unhappy.
Weren't all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!
What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?
Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?
You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.
A reader doesn't really see the characters in a story; he feels them.
Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and it was wonderful to listen to them, but they were no substitute for love itself. They couldn't kiss her like Meggie, they couldn't hug her like Resa, they couldn't laugh like Mortimer. Poor books, poor Elinor.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories