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Historical Fiction Quotes

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Historical Fiction Quotes

“That would be awkwarder--for her, at least--than expiring in his bedroom. And yes, she knew that wasn't a word. She reached his door without either fainting or falling, and counted it as a victory already. And then she raised her hand to knock, but the door whooshed open, and she was pulled inside. "I was hoping," he began, before lowering his mouth onto hers.”

LoveKissCuteHistorical FictionHistorical Romance
Book:No Groom at the Inn
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“A smile is hidden beneath the mustache, it crinkles the corners of his hooded eyes. “I didn’t. I have other business in town and I told my friend I would attend to the matter of his son, as he could not do so himself.” “Very kind of you.” “Yes. I have been looking forward to it for quite some time.” Daddy’s lemonade is almost gone, he sips it carefully, turning his eyes back to the water. “Looking forward to seeing the lad or to conducting your business?” Daddy is toying with him. “Both. You see, I had never actually met his son.” The glass rests against Daddy’s lips, unmoving. Mr. Geyer watches him closely. “But now I have, so I can get on with my,” he fixes his own gaze on the water, as though trying to see whatever it is that has transfixed my father, “business.”

MysteryYoung AdultYaHistorical FictionDetectiveVon StrassenbergGwenn WrightBluestocking GirlViktor Von StrassenbergGeyer
Book:The BlueStocking Girl
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“He speaks in that strange sports talk, telling me about the start of the new season and asks if I follow baseball. No. I really don’t. He assures me if I stay in town long enough I will become a baseball fan. It’s a requirement of living in St. Louis. Everyone is a Cardinal’s fan. “Loyal,” he tells me. St. Louis is a loyal town.”

SportsBaseballYaContemporaryHistorical FictionGothicCardinalsWorld SeriesMissouriYoung Adult LiteratureSt Louis
Book:Filter
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“Kevin looks at me and I know he isn’t seeing the little girl I use to be, all pigtails and gangly limbs. He isn’t seeing my mother’s daughter or even my mother anymore. As his eyes linger over me, stopping here and there in the most uncomfortable places, I know he isn’t really even seeing me as I am. The bloodshot eyes staring out of the alcohol-flushed face are seeing a girl, nearly of age, who owes him a tremendous debt of gratitude.--Rocky Evans”

LoveRomanceYoung AdultYaHistorical FictionTeensUrbanRomantic SuspenseFamily Saga
Book:Filter
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“Mihai had asked his father about the man one summer when the family went to the Black Sea. His father had picked up a clam shell and held it out for his young son to examine. 'Something used to live here,' he’d said that day. 'This was its house. The inside, the essence of the clam—the part that gave it life—died, and the house became empty.' From the outside, it looked the same as it always had, just like the man. He was a shell of who he used to be.”

EuropeYaHistorical FictionRomaniaBanned Books
Book:One Degree of Freedom
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“She burrowed beneath the covers in Romania in 1987, but soon she was whisked to Britain in the 1940s, transported through an enchanted wardrobe into the snowy and timeless world of Narnia. The wardrobe led her away from her boring engineering-student life and opened a wide vista, filled with adventure. Filled with possibilities. She could never go back to how things were before. Her world had shifted forever.”

EuropeYaHistorical Fiction
Book:One Degree of Freedom
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“I see so many women here,” she says, “and they are holding, all of them. Holding on to their sons or their lovers or their husbands, or their fathers, just as surely as they are holding on to the photographs that they keep or the fragments of childhood they bring with them and out on the table here.” She gestures with her hand. “They’re all different but all the same. All of them are afraid to let them go. And if we feel guilt, we find it even harder to release the dead. We keep them close to us; we guard them jealously. They were OURS. We want them to remain ours.” There’s a silence. “But they’re not ours,” she says. “And in a sense, they never were. They belong to themselves, only. Just as we belong to ourselves. And this is terrible in some ways, and in others...it might set us free.”

DeathGriefLetting GoHistorical FictionWwi
Book:Wake
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“I’ll find out who’s inside. Wait here and keep alert!’ Hallam rasped. He skirted the main path to skulk towards one of the shuttered windows on the building’s eastern wall. There was a crack in the wood and he gently inched closer to peer inside. There was a hearth-fire with a pot bubbling away and a battered table made of a length of wood over two pieces of cut timber. A small ham hung from the rafters, away from the rats and mice. He couldn’t see anyone but there was a murmur of voices. Hallam leaned in even closer and a young boy with hair the colour of straw saw the movement to stare. It was Little Jim. Thank God, the child was safe. Snot hung from his nose and he was pale. Hallam put a finger to his lips, but the boy, not even four, did not understand, and just gaped innocently back. Movement near the window. A man wearing a blue jacket took up a stone bottle and wiped his long flowing moustache afterwards. His hair was shoulder-length, falling unruly over the red collar of his jacket. Tied around his neck was a filthy red neckerchief. A woman moaned and the man grinned with tobacco stained teeth at the sound. Laughter and French voices. The woman whimpered and Little Jim turned to watch unseen figures. His eyes glistened and his bottom lip dropped. The woman began to plead and Hallam instinctively growled. The Frenchman, hearing the noise, pushed the shutter open and the pistol’s cold muzzle pressed against his forehead. Hallam watched the man’s eyes narrow and then widen, before his mouth opened. Whatever he intended to shout was never heard, because the ball smashed through his skull to erupt in a bloody spray as it exited the back of the Frenchman’s head. There was a brief moment of silence. ‘28th!’ Hallam shouted, as he stepped back against the wall. ‘Make ready!”

WarFictionBloodAdventureSnowHonourHistorical FictionRetreatAction AdventureMilitary HistoryEbookFlandersChristmas Story
Book:Blood on the Snow
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“Още от дълбока древност, хората запечатвали историята. Отначало върху камък, метал или папирус, а по-късно върху хартия и електронни носители. Записвали всичко съществуващо в света или в мечтите им. Така се появили библиотеките – местата, където те споделяли и обменяли знанията си. Неверниците смятали, че ако ги унищожат, с тях ще унищожат и историята. Но грешали. Човешкият ум сътворил това книжно богатство бил способен отново да го възстанови или съгради още веднъж. Всяка страница и всеки ред. В Древен Египет фениксът бил асоцииран с бога на Слънцето – Ра. Възприемал се като символ на слънчевия цикъл и прераждането. И точно, както той се възражда от пепелта, така и знанието надживяло времето, в което е било създадено, за да бъде вечно!”

LiteratureBooksHistorical FictionTriller
Book:Съкровището на Цезар
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“In Venice, things not always as they first appear. I contemplate this observation from my post on the aft deck of one of Master Fumagalli’s gondolas, taking in the panorama of bridges, domes, bell towers, and quaysides of my native city. I row into the neck of the Grand Canal, and, one by one, the reflection of each colorful façade appears, only to dissipate into wavering, shimmering shards under my oar.”

Coming Of AgeHistorical FictionItalyRenaissanceVeniceGondola
Book:The Gondola Maker
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“The formula for this brand of "historical" writing is to put the public on the inside; to let them feel the palpitations of royal and imperial lovers and to overhear their lispings and cooings. It can be argued that a man has to live somewhere, and that if his own time is so cut up by rapid change that he can't find a cranny big enough to relax in, then he must betake himself to the past. That is certainly one motive in the production of historical romance, from Sir Walter Scott to Thornton Wilder. But mainly this formula works as a means of flattery. The public is not only invited inside but encouraged to believe that there is nothing inside that differs from its own thoughts and feelings. This reassurance is provided by endowing historical figures with the sloppiest possible minds. The great are "humanized" by being trivial. The debunking school began by making the great appear as corrupt, or mean and egotistical. The "humanizers" have merely carried on to make them idiotic. "Democratic" vanity has reached such proportions that it cannot accept as human anything above the level of cretinous confusion of mind of the type popularized by Hemingway's heroes. Just as the new star must be made to appear successful by reason of some freak of fortune, so the great, past or present, must be made to seem so because of the most ordinary qualities, to which fortune adds an unearned trick or idea.”

TruthPastTimeChangeFictionNostalgiaHistorical FictionRelaxationPast And PresentRapid Change
Book:The Mechanical Bride : Folklore of Industrial Man
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“It’s just that . . . well, I like the night. And it’s a good place to hide.” “Hide? From what?” Stella inched away, making a face. “I come out here to practice, Mama. I’ve got stuff in my head, but I don’t know how to get it out. I try to write it down some“times, but I’m not very good at it. It’s like my brains are dumplings in somebody else’s soup.” She looked up toward the stars, but even the sky had turned murky. Her mother hugged her closer. “I’ve talked to Gertrude Grayson a time or two,” she said gently. Stella stiffened. Betrayed! “She says you are the best thinker in the school.”

InspirationWordsWriterHistorical FictionThinkerMothersTeachersDaughters
Book:Stella by Starlight
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