"fantasy-books"タグの名言

The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake. Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true? We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.

If you want to write a fantasy story with Norse gods, sentient robots, and telepathic dinosaurs, you can do just that. Want to throw in a vampire and a lesbian unicorn while you're at it? Go ahead. Nothing's off limits. But the endless possibility of the genre is a trap. It's easy to get distracted by the glittering props available to you and forget what you're supposed to be doing: telling a good story. Don't get me wrong, magic is cool. But a nervous mother singing to her child at night while something moves quietly through the dark outside her house? That's a story. Handled properly, it's more dramatic than any apocalypse or goblin army could ever be.

Tienes cicatrices, cicatrices feas, porque te hicieron algo feo, algo malvado. La gente ve las cicatrices. Pero también te ve a ti y tú no eres esas cicatrices. No eres fea. No eres malvada. Eres Therru y eres hermosa. Eres Therru, que puede trabajar y caminar y correr y bailar, hermosamente, con un vestido rojo.

Así damos siempre ese primer paso, repentino y rápido, que nos separa de la infancia, sin mirar hacia atrás ni hacia adelante, sin cautela, y con las manos vacías.

Un hombre puede saber a dónde va, mas nunca podrá saberlo si no regresa y vuelve a su origen, y atesora ese origen. Si no quiere ser una rama desgajada que va y viene y se hunde a merced de la corriente, entonces tendrá que ser el torrente mismo, todo él desde el nacimiento hasta la desembocadura en las aguas del mar.

And who are you really, Tallis? Are you going to be the hero of Selkirk, rather than its monster? A promise of hope, rather than a warning of darker things to come?

Those who try to juggle wisdom, power and greed, drop one of the balls, every time.” —Zarost

Pain was fleeting. Death was forever.

If you see the dragon fly, best you drink the flagon dry.” —Zarost

Clutching the claw around his neck, Fawn pushed away the dungeon of hatred. Goodness had a great truth, too, and that was sacrifice. It was something darkness could never understand, for it was entrenched with precious treasures like love.

Fawn and Gabriel stared at her in wonder, for only passionate dreams could ignite a timid soul.

If you ask me, I think the first multi-dimensional-space-time traveling device man invented was centuries ago. And they called this device a Book.