Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter.
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This fairy tale we're living is real inside our hearts.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
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Everyman's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.
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Whanne that Aprille with his shoures sote The droughte of March hath perced to the rote.
fairytales
I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but one hole for to sterten to.
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This is the fairy land; O spite of spites, We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites.
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By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
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The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
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Who so shall telle a tale after a man, He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can, Everich word, if it be in his charge, All speke he never so rudely and so large.
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The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
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Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.
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Cinderella? Snow White? What's that? An illness?
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He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself.
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While the archetype of the tinker is generally the whipping person in classical bedtimes stories, this particular individual was a tinker by trade and just happened to be economically disadvantaged.
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A spell perhaps? The prince wrinkled his face as though it physically hurt him to think and ask questions.
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Children played at those stories; they dreamed about them. They took them to heart and acted as if to live inside them.
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Träume und Märchen waren ihr eigentlicher Lebensinhalt, dachte ich jetzt. Deshalb hat sie sich auch umgebracht, dachte ich, weil ein Mensch, der nur Träume und Märchen sich zu seinem Lebensinhalt gemacht hat, in dieser Welt nicht überleben kann, nicht überleben darf, dachte ich.
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I will not wear a tulle-tailed dunce cap for anyone or for any reason.
fantasy fairytales
The sun hitched up her trousers and soldiered on up into the sky. September squinted at it and wondered if the sun here was different than the sun in Nebraska. It seemed gentler, more golden, deeper. The shadows it cast seemed more profound. But September could not be sure. When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean that it is brighter and lovelier; it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.
Fantasy is storytelling with the beguiling power to transform the impossible into the imaginable, and to reveal our own real world in a fresh and truth-bearing light.
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But I felt like I'd made a journey to the land of fairytales only to find out that the magical world was identical to the real one. Even in fairytales, the sun still burns, sand still works its way into your bikini bottoms, and the diner next door to your motel still scorches toast.
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- One si? Nie starzej?. (..) Kiedy jeszcze by?em sam na wyspie, obrazy ze snu stawa?y si? Coraz wyra?niejsze. W ko?cu wyskoczy?y z moich my?li i wdar?y si? W tutejsz? Rzeczywisto?. Nadal jednak pozostaj? Fantazj?. A fantazja ma t? Cudown? Moc,?e to, co stworzy, na zawsze pozostaje m?ode i?ywe. (..) S?ysza?e? O Roszpunce, mój ch?opcze?Pokr?ci?em g?ow?.- Ale o Czerwonym Kapturku s?ysza?e? Albo o Królewnie?nie?ce czy Jasiu i Ma?gosi? (..) Ile oni maj? Lat, jak my?lisz? Sto? Mo?e tysi?c? S? Zarazem bardzo m?odzi i bardzo starzy, poniewa? Zrodzili si? W wyobra?ni ludzi. Nie, nie przypuszczam, by karze?ki si? Zestrza?y i posiwia?y. Nawet stroje, które nosz, nie maj? Najmniejszego cho?by zagniecenia. Inaczej jest z nami, zwyk?ymi?miertelnikami. My si? Starzejemy i siwiejemy. To my si? Zdzieramy na strz?py i pewnego dnia odchodzimy. Z naszymi snami jest inaczej. One potrafi??y? W innych ludziach przez d?ugi czas po naszym odej?ciu z tego?wiata.
life time fairytales
The more stories I study, the more I begin to suspect that there is only story, and that we are, all of us, engaged in telling it.
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