"literary-fiction"タグの名言

Wouldn’t the joys of life lose all colour, if life was eternal?

True siblings are bound together by far more essential things than blood, while more times than many blood isn't thicker than water.

At one time or another we are all called to leave the safety of our homes, the certainty of what we know, the illusions of who we are. Not everyone will heed this call, of course. And those who do will risk losing themselves completely. But if we choose to ignore the invitation, we risk never knowing who we might have become. We risk dying without knowing what it is to live.

A dream is not to be taken lightly. A dream is a powerful ally, coming to your aid. A magic tale, written in invisible ink. A golden thread, tying together the worlds.

We think our world into being.

Life must be taken a step at a time. All else is madness.

Without bridges, there are no connections. Without bridges, there are only chasms. Without bridges, there are only longings. We cannot wait for the land to flatten and the stream to narrow before we seek to cross.

Prometheus stole fire from the gods. We are each the heirs of that divine spark. Used wisely, the spark fuels one's journey and lights the way. Treated carelessly, the spark consumes its owner and everything in its path.

Every answer can be followed by another question.

The monk wakes from a dream into a world of mists and thunderclouds. The clouds play children's games with him. They show him dissolving images of yaks and sheep, serpents and hawks, angels and dragons. He closes his eyes and the clouds count to ten. He opens his eyes and they look for him.

The trees are bedecked with snow, the air is perfumed; how sweet, how dark the sultry fragrance. Forever hypnotising, always haunting. I want to inhale the fragrance of your skin, drink from your open mouth.

In this protean universe, our ephemeral existence is nothing short of a miracle

It was a year ago today your daughter went missing.’ Bagg had closed his eyes, feeling the death going on inside.

You have to believe me without proof. That's what faith is — believing without proof.' They got up from the bank of stones. It was getting late, the shadows lay cool and lengthened on the grass and the tops of the trees had the stillness around them that means the end of the day and its liquidation in the setting sun. They retraced their steps back to the house where his car was parked, and when they passed through the blighted orchard, he picked up an apple for her and she ate it. She didn't even have to look; she knew it would be whole, without worms or decay.

Question: You’re 21-years-old, a young adult writing mature adult literary fiction. Imaj: Yes, I feel creativity is an ageless thing.

It's amazing how close I have been, all this time, to my old life. And yet the distance that divides me from it is vast.