Quotes Tagged "fiction"

Aku mencintainya tanpa diketahui. Aku mencintainya dalam diam. Aku mencintainya dalam satu sudut pandang. Aku mencintainya di satu sisi. Ya, aku percaya. Jika takdirku adalah dirimu, kau akan memilihku. Nanti.

If someday you should ever think of me and miss me, know in your heart that I'd want you to find me once again. No matter how distant in time or space... FIND ME.

We both must burn this midnight oil together. You’re just as new to me as I am you.” --Andrew

Mistakes? That's why they put erasers on pencils.

The features of character are carved out of adversity.

The northern star changes its position every ten thousand years, but friendships can last for all eternity. — RJPeters

Remember this one thing baby girl, women don’t juggle…we diversify!

Stanley forced a smile to his lips at the memory of the onesided romance; it was silly, after all, a stupid childhood crush. Who’d fall in love with a fictional character? That was the kind of thing you laughed about as an adult. Or at least Harriet had thought so. He couldn’t quite do it, though. Couldn’t quite see it as a joke. It had felt too real, too raw and wild and fierce, for him to dismiss it even now. It was love, of a sort, stunted and unformed as it was. For a time, it had kept him sane.

Ah, ya, omong-omong, aku sangat merindukanmu. Apa kau merindukanku juga, mmm?

Bagaimana bisa kau tidak menyukai hujan? Padahal hujan selalu mendekatkan kita. Oh, aku lupa. Kau mungkin tidak menganggapku sepenting itu. Aku bukan pemeran utama dalam lakon hidupmu. Aku hanya figuran yang hanya sesekali dibutuhkan.

Entah mengapa, mendadak dia merasa bahwa berkenalan dengan si pemilik nama itu sepertinya akan menyenangkan.

I am also an author. Please check out my novel, A Life Worth Dreaming About.

Sabrina Thomas clutched the leather-bound notebook to her chest and tried not to be impatient as the elevator in the south tower of Texas Hospital near downtown Dallas stopped once again on its climb to the eighteenth and top floor. But it was difficult. Dr. Cade Mathis, the bane of her existence, would reach Mrs. Ward’s room first and then there’d be hell to pay. Sabrina jabbed the button to close the doors as soon as the last person stepped onto the already crowded elevator.

There was an image in my mind—an expectation of what it would be like when I finally gave myself fully to a man. It wasn’t like this. It was always at night with candles flickering lazily, music filling the air with a sexy melody, and maybe a bubble bath. But no. It was infinitely better, and there was no froo froo, stereotypical scene that played out. It was incredible. Brilliant. Amazing. Indescribable, really. Like all the planets in the galaxy aligned for a perfect moment in time. As if this was the beginning of time. From now until the rest of eternity, everything finally had meaning.

WEST SALEM ~ October 2011 A sudden vision, fraught with malevolence and darkness, obscured her sight. The face of a menacing figure turned from the shadows of his grisly handiwork and stared at Sorcha. Her muscles tensed. By the Goddess, could he see her? Please! No! She wanted to scream, to run, but the vision ensnared her into the horrific moment like a fly in a spider's web.

Când măsura versurilor albe Este egală Și lacrimile nu-și găsesc sentimente calde În schimbarea punctuală, Când distanța dintre două puncte moarte Pare vie Și diamantele se sparg ca florile de gheață de pe geam Când iarna vine Dragostea e izometrie.

And, thus we went out. We talked. Briefly. Intensely. Being as open as we could. Judging as little as possible. For an hour or less. Every day or every alternate day. Over the last month or so. We talked till we parted. Initially, we found our time too short and childishly expressed that we would look forward to our next chat. Then we saw the value of speaking face-to-face, in a city that hardly spoke. We cherished our little time. Our conversations grew deeper. We set them free. And returning home felt less shackling. We shared nothing more. An accidental touch of fingers, or a wrist held while crossing the road, or an arm around the shoulder, rather barely above it, scraping the thin air. But we didn’t hold hands. We didn’t hug. We hadn’t so far. Though we both wanted it. So badly.

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee's life of the poet. She died young--alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

It’s not the word made flesh we want in writing, in poetry and fiction, but the flesh made word