Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Paulo Coelho

Quote by Paulo Coelho

Work

The Witch of Portobello

In 'The Witch of Portobello,' the protagonist, Athena, is a woman whose life is shrouded in mystery and enigma. The narrative unfolds as readers delve into her past, revealing her complex journey of self-discovery amidst the backdrop of a diverse and vibrant European society. The story is rich with cultural nuances and philosophical musings, offering a unique perspective on the human experience. more

Author

Paulo Coelho
Paulo Coelho

Paulo Coelho, born on August 24, 1947, is a renowned Brazilian author and lyricist. His works are characterized by profound philosophical thoughts and rich imagination, with his most famous novel being 'The Alchemist'. more

You May Also Like

“The first book that I bought with my own money was "The Blue Aspic" by Edward Gorey. In fact, when the first two volumes of "A Series of Unfortunate Events" were ready to be published, I sent them to Edward Gorey with a note saying how much I admired his work and how much I hoped that he would forgive what I had stolen from him. Shortly after I sent it, he died. So, I like to think that I killed him.”

MurderShameAuthorWordShamelessWithoutWhichMeansGorey
Book:And Then? And Then? What Else?
Create image

“I left them to it, the pointing of fingers on maps, the tracing of mountain villages, the tracks and contours on maps of larger scale, and basked for the one evening allowed to me in the casual, happy atmosphere of the taverna where we dined. I enjoyed poking my finger in a pan and choosing my own piece of lamb. I liked the chatter and the laughter from neighbouring tables. The gay intensity of talk - none of which I could understand, naturally - reminded me of left-bank Paris. A man from one table would suddenly rise to his feet and stroll over to another, discussion would follow, argument at heat perhaps swiftly dissolving into laughter. This, I thought to myself, has been happening through the centuries under this same sky, in the warm air with a bite to it, the sap drink pungent as the sap running through the veins of these Greeks, witty and cynical as Aristophanes himself, in the shadow, unmoved, inviolate, of Athene's Parthenon. ("The Chamois")”

GreekGreeceTavern
Book:Echoes from the Macabre: Selected Stories
Create image

“The lover drinks and the cup-bearer pours. The lover thinks but the cup-bearer knows: love begets love. Since this wine is love, then this cup is love, then this tavern is love, then this life is love.”

LoveLifeGodSpiritualReligionFaithSpiritualityEnjoyLove QuotesConsciousnessAwarenessWineUnityDrinkingDrunkOnenessBelovedBlissEnjoymentEcstasySufismPresentLoverLovingLive In The MomentPresenceSufiOne LoveTranscendenceTogethernessKamandKojouriKamand KojouriLove PoemsBegetsDrunkennessUnionEuphoriaSufi QuotesMerrimentTranscendLove Is LoveLove WinsDrinksCupTavernDrunkenPoursCupbearerLove Begets LoveSufi Poems
Author:Kamand Kojouri
Create image

“One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill; Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still. These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed,long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore. Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below.”

SpiritsHauntingsTavern
Author:Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Tales of the Wayside Inn"
Create image