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Literary Fiction Quotes

Browse 431 quotes about Literary Fiction.

Literary Fiction Quotes

“With more time spent in their mother's presence, Maggie kept topics of conversation to small stuff, seldom ever wanted to dig below the surface, learned from her mother: just be polite, which makes Callie's own facile mental questioning and creative drive, paired with her physical rigidity, all the more oppositional, and, how they dance around serious subjects, laughable.”

“School children, who have enjoyed reading a romance or a detective thriller or a novel about terror and conquest, make the invariable mistake of studying literature in the college. They make the mistake of learning theory in place of art; they acquire impediments in their own enjoyment of the books by allowing a set of theories to govern their own reading.”

“She felt the cold blast from the sterile air conditioning on her bare arms and thighs, as she ambled down the center of the shopping complex's ground floor. The scene was a swirl of candy bright lights--the Victoria's Secret fuchsia signboard, signboards which lured one to purchase "confidence," or "sexual appeal," or whatever it was that was being advertised--the fluorescent lights in each store, contrasting with the shiny, black-tiled walls and eye-catching speckled marble tiles on the ground. One could lick the floor--the tiles were spotless, clean like the fake air she was breathing in, like the atoms and cells in her that were decaying in stale neglect.”

“Your standards aren’t the law, ma’am—with all due respect. Your daughter doesn’t have to become you to be extraordinary. She can choose differently. Live differently. And still be a miracle. You just need to stop looking down at her from where you stand— and look up from where I live. Then maybe you’ll see what I see. A goddess—with a heart.”

“It didn’t rise like a love song. It rose like a memory that refused to die. No longer a whisper— but a vow. Declared into the vastness of the universe. Each note struck like a heartbeat— sure, steady, full of fire. As though it had learned loss, and joy, and longing— and returned bearing all of it, just to lay it at her feet.”

“He loved her because of her heart—that wide, soft, terrifying heart. The one she carried so openly, so foolishly brave, like it wasn’t breakable at all. She knew it would get hurt. But carried it anyway. But a heart like that never comes cheap. And the currency was grief.”

“You can’t solve everything with philosophical quotes and mouse clicks. If I throw you in a lion’s cage, do you think it’ll care how many books you’ve read, or how fast you can multiply five-digit numbers? He will come for your throat. That’s how some people are. They’re just animals.”

“Grief does that—makes you run and hide in places it can’t find you so easily. But now, that grief had melted away, like a candle burning gently through the night. And she was ready to go back. That’s how it works for most people. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You grieve. You heal. You move on. But his candle… his candle had steel-clad, it seemed.”

“So he researched love. Turned out it was no different than religion. Everyone had their own definition. Their own rituals. People tortured each other and called it love. Abused each other, still called it love. Lied, cheated, betrayed—all under the same word. Some stayed married for 60 years: love. Some divorced and still raised their kids together: love. Some never met again but carried the ghost of a person forever: love.”

“Like I left a piece of myself in that little room of yours. Did you ever find it?” “I did,” he said gently. “But it wasn’t in my room. Found it lodged in the left chamber of my heart.” He exhaled—slow, steady. “Went to see a cardiologist about it once,” he murmured. “He ran all kinds of scans and said, ‘It’s lodged pretty deep in there. If we try to take it out, there’s a good chance you’ll bleed out before we can stitch you back up. So, it’s either we kill you trying… or you live with it for the rest of your life. I’m still living with it. My heart’s grown arteries and capillaries around it. It’s part of me now.”

“There is a sacred marriage between water and earth... Their relationship binds everything we know and trust. Earth holds space for water. Water nurtures earth’s dreams. Their collective desires make life possible. Without their marriage, this world could not be. And we could not be of this world.”

“THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.”