“A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens 'em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.”
“Hester shook her head. 'Don't confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there's no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life. Never drew a free breath, yet he shaped the world with just three small words: there once was. And where are his great masters now, hmm? Rotting in tombs, if they're lucky. But Aesop - he still lives to this day, dancin' on the tip of every tongue what's ever told a tale.' She winked at Molly. 'Think on that, next time you're scrubbing floors.”
“Stories come in all different kinds." Hester scooted closer, clearly enjoying the subject at hand. "There's tales, which are light and fluffy. Good for a smile on a sad day. Then you got yarns, which are showy-yarns reveal more about the teller than the story. After that there's myths, which are stories made up by whole groups of people. And last of all, there's legends." She raised a mysterious eyebrow. "Legends are different from the rest on account no one knows where they start. Folks don't tell legends; they repeat them. Over and over again through history.”
“We'll never know. And maybe that's the best. It's a bad tale that has all the answers." -Molly”
“Nobody's too old for stories--not even God himself.”
“To demand promises is to invite disappointment" -Hester”
“A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens ’em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.”
“Runnin's not a bad thing, sir, so long as you're runnin' towards somethin' good.”
“Don't confuse what you do with who you are...”
“To stand in the shadow of this tree was to feel a chill run through your whole body.”
“I think I figured it out." She sniffed, looking up at the stars. "Hester asked me what the difference between a story and a lie was. At the time, I told her that a story helps folks. 'Helps 'em do what?' she asked. Well, I think I know the answer. A story helps folks face the world, even when it frightens 'em. And a lie does the opposite. It helps you hide.”
“It’s no joke,” he insisted. “Something’s wrong with this whole place. You seen how pale they all are—it ain’t natural.” “That’s just how folks look in England.”
“He reached under the bench to retrieve his crutch. His father had carved the crutch from the branch of a fallen wych elm on the farm back home. It was strong and thick and had just enough spring to be comfortable when he walked. Da named it 'Courage,' saying that all good tools deserved a good title. Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use.”
“To differing opinions: may they ever stay apart.”
“Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use.”
“Don’t confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there’s no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life. Never drew a free breath, yet he shaped the world with just three small words: ‘There once was.’ And where are his great masters now, hmm? Rotting in tombs, if they’re lucky. But Aesop— he still lives to this day, dancing on the tip of every tongue that’s ever told a tale.” She winked at Molly. “Think on that, next time you’re scrubbing floors.”
“Hollow, melting the final bits of ice from the bare trees. Steam rose from the soil like a phantom, carrying with it a whisper of autumn smoke that had been lying dormant in the frosty underground.”
“He shook the nerves from his hand and touched the root again. Again it moved. The tiny fibers at the end came alive, reaching for him, twining around his fingertip. He looked around the hole, and he could now see tiny roots everywhere, pushing gently through the soil. The tree was growing right before his eyes. “You’re alive,” he whispered. Just then, he felt a sharp pain. The root had tightened, choking the tip of his finger. Kip jerked his hand back, trying to pull himself free—but the root would not let go. He pulled harder. “Ow!” he cried out as his hand finally came away. A gust of wind howled overhead. Kip looked up and saw leaves and loose dirt blowing into the hole, piling up around his feet. He tried to pull himself out of the hole, but a strong gust knocked him backward. Dirt and leaves poured down over his body, burying him. “Help!” Kip shouted, but he knew no one could hear him. Molly and the family were inside the house. Even Galileo was gone. More and more tiny roots came out of the soil, grasping at his legs, his arms, his neck. Kip screamed again, straining against the roots. His voice came back to him, muffled and small. He could barely move beneath the weight of dirt and leaves—a rustling, choking darkness. Kip twisted his body and felt something hard against his face—”
“Most trees invite you to climb up into their canopy. This one did not. Most trees make you want to carve your initials into the trunk. This one did not.”
“But that’s how the tree works, ain’t it? It gives you what you wish for but not in a way that makes things better. I suppose that’s the difference between what you want and what you need.” Molly”
“Don’t confuse what you do with who you are, dearie.”
“There's what's smart and what's right." - Molly in the Night Gardener”
“Courage, by J.M. Barrie..., is about a walking stick, a storyteller, and what it means to fight for peace...what young people are to do in a world in which adults have failed...them.”
“Oh, where did you go, dear Gal-i-le-o? Your oats are a-ready, an’ we miss you so!” It”
“My girl, we are on the cusp of a modern age-and with it comes modern medicine." He dug a fat hand through his bag and removed a small bottle. "Take this laudanum, for example. Wonderful stuff! I have a few drops in my tea each morning to calm the nerves.”
“Will we die, just a little?”
“The reason that clichés become clichés is that they are the hammers and screwdrivers in the toolbox of communication.”
“Excuse me, please. You do not understand. You do not really understand who it was we talked with in the tent that night. He may have seemed an ordinary man to you – a handicapped one, at that. But this is not so. I fear Benedict. He is the Master of Arms for Amber. Can you conceive of a millennium? A thousand years? Several of them? Can you understand a man who, for almost every day of a lifetime like that, has spent some time dwelling with weapons, tactics, strategy? All that there is of military science thunders in his head. He has often journeyed from shadow to shadow, witnessing variation after variation on the same battle, with but slightly altered circumstances, in order to test his theories of warfare. He has commanded armies so vast that you could watch them march by day after day and see no end to the columns. Although he is inconvenienced by the loss of his arm, I would not wish to fight with him either with weapons or barehanded. It is fortunate that he has no designs upon the throne, or he would be occupying it right now. If he were, I believe that I would give up at this moment and pay him homage. I fear Benedict.”
“For my own good. Anytime anyone had ever used those words to me, they hadn't had the slightest clue what ‘my own good’ truly was”
“Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?”
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