Не винаги сме зърнатото от очите, и никога почти - видяното в мечтите.
There never is a happy ending because nothing ever ends.
Who has choices need not choose. We must, who have none. We can love but what we lose-- What is gone is gone.
The true secret in being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adventures, nor can the boy knock on the witch's door wh...
The king is always watching her out of his pale eyes, wondering what she is, and the king’s son wounds himself with loving her and wonders who she is. And every day she searches the sea and the sky, t...
See, they don't have winter here. I mean, they have a winter – where I live, it's liable to rain any time between November and June, or all the time – but they don't have winter. The idea of it isn't...
No, my friend, he responded finally. I am not God, no more than you. But I think you and I are equally part of God as we stand here, and he swept his arm wide to take in all the slow, dark shiver of t...
My father hates cats. He says that there is no such thing as a cat — it is just a shape that all manner of imps, hobs and devilkins like to put on, to gain easy entrance into the homes of men.
It all seems a bit unfair, my lord, begging your pardon. What could we have done to save the unicorns? We were afraid of the Red Bull. What could we have done? One word might have been enough, King Lí...
I've always thought cemeteries were like cities. There are streets, avenues—you've seen them, I think, Michael. There are blocks, too, and house numbers, slums and ghettos, middle-class sections and s...
I will miss it so, she said beside him. This hell of a place, I will miss it so much. This fat body, walking mud puddle, deceived by everything, this impossible, ruinous accident of a world, these peo...
I think that we are often angry with each other without knowing it, and I know that we are angry with ourselves.
I don’t think I could ever see her closely, the sentinel replied, however close she came.
Can you write a poem about someone's snores? About trying not to sneeze when her hair tickles my nose? About that one tiny barely audible fart against my leg?
But she knew beyond both hope and vanity that men had changed, and the world with them, because the unicorns were gone.
And you are truly human now. You can love, and fear, and forbid things to be what they are, and overact.
You may plant your acres again, and raise up your fallen orchards and vineyards, but they will never flourish as they used to, never—until you learn to take joy in them, for no reason. He
Why did they go away, do you think? If there ever were such things. Who knows? Times change. Would you call this age a good one for unicorns?
Why are you hoping to kill the unicorns? Why would you not just take pictures, videos, with your cell phones, your fancy digital cameras, and let them be?The young men looked at him, and then at each...
What is plucked will grow again, What is slain lives on, What is stolen will remain-- What is gone is gone.