To light a candle is to cast a shadow.
What they do no’ understand, they fear, and they hate what makes them afraid, for they think it is a sign o’ weakness.
May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, and my spirit brave.
I think fantasy is best described as a kind of fiction that evokes wonder, mystery or magic, a sense of possibility beyond the ordinary world in which we live, and yet which reflects and comments upon that known world.
Words. I had always loved them. I collected them, like I had collected pretty stones as a child. I liked to roll words over my tongue like a lump of molten honeycomb, savouring the sweetness, the crackle, the crunch.
She felt as if she had strayed into a fairy tale, as full of peril as of wonder, a place where anything could happen.
War is an unpredictable beast. Once unleashed, it runs like a rabid dog, ravening friend or foe alike. It can drag on for years, a slow attrition of nerve and fortitude, or be over in one brilliant flash, an extravagant conflagration of flame and blood and waste.
Stories are important too. Stories help make sense of things. They make you believe you can do things. They help you imagine that things may be different, that if you just have enough courage... or faith... or goodness... you can change things for the better.
Ava’s father believed that myths and fairy tales – like dreams – opened a window into the unconscious. by listening to the language of dreams and old tales, he said, all humans could learn to understand themselves and the world, better.
Nothing opens up the mind and the heart like books do, and so they have the power to change the whole world. That’s why the are burning books, Ava. To stop us thinking, and feeling, and imagining...
I’m not brave,′ Ava replied huskily. ‘If you only knew how afraid I really am. Sometimes I think I am afraid of everything.’ ‘But isn’t that what being brave is all about? Being afraid, but doing it anyway?
Once there was a gypsy queen who wore on her wrist a chain of six lucky charms – a golden crown, a silver horse, a butterfly caught in amber, a cat’s eye shell, a bolt of lightning forged from the heart of a falling star, and the flower of the rue plant, herb of grace. The queen gave each of her six children one of the charms as their lucky talisman, but ever since the chain of charms was broken, the gypsies had been dogged with misfortune.
It seemed like a magical city, floating on the lagoon as if conjured by an enchanter’s wand. I sat in the meadow and stared at it, picking meadow flowers from around my feet- clover and daisies and wild garlic- and making myself a wreath.
The garden was the most beautiful place Margherita had ever seen. In spring, it was a sea of delicate blossom. In summer, it was green and fruitful. In autumn, the trees blazed gold and red and orange, as vivid as Margherita’s hair. Even in winter, it was beautiful, with bare branches against the old stone walls and green hedges in curves and curlicues about beds of winter-flowering herbs and flowers.
These things you know.” Scarlett shook her head in a mock amazement. “Where do you get all this stuff from ” “Books you know the things made from words printed on paper and bound together. Im sure you must have seen one even if you’ve never opened one ” Max said. “Ha ha very funny ” Scarlett said. Hannah found she had remembered how to smile.
No story was just a story, though. It was a suitcase stuffed with secrets.
The bare branches were silvered with frost. The berries of the holly tree looked white with rime. Old Marie said that all holly berries had once been white, but that the crown of thorns had been made of holly, and the berries had turned red when touched with Jesus’s blood. She had a story to explain everything, Old Marie.