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Short Story Quotes

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Short Story Quotes

“مردم دانا از قدیم الایام گفته اند که خوشبختی مانند سلامتی است: وقتی نزد کسی هست، هیچ جلب توجه نمی کند، ولی هنگامی که سال ها می گذرند و می روند، آن وقت است که یاد خوشبختی در سرت زنده می شود. چه جور هم زنده می شود!”

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Book:A Country Doctor's Notebook & The Fatal Eggs (Hardcover)
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“Days in the sun, such harmless fun, they remind my heart of you. But you crumbled away, now alone I will play, my heart crumbled away with you too. Bundles of flowers, a bouquet towers, they remind my heart of you. But your soul flew away, how I wish it could stay, my heart flew away with you too. Rows of stones, such beautiful bones, they remind my heart of you. But you rotted away, at the end of the day, my heart rots away for you too.”

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Book:We Rotted in the Bitterlands
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“بی قصد گفتم: (( بعضی اوقات از خودم می پرسم، واقعا آزاد بودن چه معنی ای دارد.)) - من فکر می کنم که آزادی نمی تواند جز کمی بی گدار زدن به آب باشد . آزادی تعادلی متزلزل است، کمی خارج از حد و‌ مرز بودن.”

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Book:Three O'Clock in the Morning
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“به راستی چقدر کارها آسان می شد اگر انسان ها بسیاری از سهل انگاری های خود را به نام دوراندیشی و خیرخواهی توجیه نمی کردند. چه بسا از کودکی ما را از کارهایی که شوق انجامشان را داشتیم منع کردند، تنها به این بهانه که از پس آن کارها بر نمی آییم.”

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Book:La Symphonie pastorale
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“واقعیت غم انگیز این است که، افسوس، دقیقا همان کسی که آن حسن نیت عام به او ابراز می شود آن را یک جور توهین تلقی می کند؛ و بدین ترتیب آن حسن نیت نوعی غرض ورزی به بار می آورد.”

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Book:Love Among the Haystacks and Other Stories
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“A novel is like a mountain. Like Mount Rainier. You ever seen Mount Rainier? It's like you're looking at God. It's so gorgeous and dynamic and powerful and meaningful. Then as you walk toward it, Things change. At one point, it's not even a mountain anymore. There's an incline, but you don't see the whole thing. There are different levels. When you get to the top, you look out from the mountain and it's just as majestic because now you're looking from God's point of view. So the novel is a mountain. Now, the short story is an island --- some trees and a beach and a little creature running around. You go on the island, but then you realize that underneath it is a mountain, but it's just underwater, so you never see it. You have to describe the whole mountain, but only from the point of view of that island. Whatever detritus gets washed up, whatever the weather is there, whatever is happening underneath, you have to somehow give that to the reader without making it explicit.”

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Author:Walter Mosley
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“I'd say there's a general thesis in here somewhere: any story that suffers from what seems like a moral failing (that seems sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, pedantic, appropriative, derivative of another writer's work, and so on) will be seen, with sufficient analytical snooping, to be suffering from a technical failing, and if that failing is addressed, it will (always) become a better story.”

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Book:A Swim in a Pond in the Rain
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“If I could make the ripples dance to create futures for my sister, I would. As beautiful as the tiny globes of spherical seawater she used to toy with when we were kids--tiny worlds in their own right, of different colors and sizes, floating in midair. I would have arranged everything so she would get a kind and gentle ending. None of them would end with her lying on the ground, helpless and wake. In fact, if I could, I would remove all endings for her. I would give her a way out, a loophole in this infallible mechanism of time.”

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Book:Laut Stories
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“The frame of the mirror was a deep mahogany and carved with an intricate design of what appeared in the dim light to be leaves and vines. The mirror’s surface was clouded with dust and age, so much that Quinn could not even see his own reflection. On impulse, he rubbed a small circle with the back of his wrist but beneath the dust the glass was still milky and unclear. ~ "The Mirror”

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Book:Christmas Lites
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“As he carefully made his way back to the stairs and awkwardly turned off the light, he did not notice that the dark shadow he had assumed was his reflection remained in the mirror. He didn’t see the hands press against the surface and make large, liquid-like bulges beneath the glass. Nor did he hear the whispers that so suddenly and violently filled the dark, cluttered space as he had closed and locked the heavy attic door. ~ "The Mirror”

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Book:Christmas Lites
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“How about this?” she retorted, her voice deceptively flirtatious, and in that small, stolen moment in his mind, he quickly spun and grasped her by the small of her back, pulled her close into to him, and made her his. And maybe she resisted at first before giving in, or maybe she didn’t—maybe she’d wanted this just as long as he had. But none of that would matter, because they would finally be together, starting at that moment and for the rest of their lives. And they would love each other and raise children and make music, and life would suddenly be worth living, and Christ, how could anyone ever throw something like that away?”

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Book:The End of Summer: Thirteen Tales of Halloween
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“The last clear thought I have is of my grandmother’s rust-colored wall clock ticking away in the darkness of my apartment—my sanctuary where I dreamed and desired and hoped for goodness and love. I wonder how long that clock will tick without anyone around to hear it. I wonder if maybe I should have taken my grandmother’s silverware or jewelry instead. I wonder – if I knew then what I know now – if I still would have approached Jade that first night and invited her into my life, only to watch as she took it from me and fed it to some Godless thing, as my mother had called it. Would I still have given myself over to her, knowing it would end the same way, with the barbaric flicker of hope that this time she could love me?”

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Book:The End of Summer: Thirteen Tales of Halloween
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“Nostalgia is old hat,” Carol says. Carol tears down the yellow leaflets, pinup girls, and wallpaper garden. For a while everything is bare. A month goes by and it is Christmas. Carol only hangs up the pinup girls. Then she hangs up the wallpaper garden. The leaflets have been burnt.”

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Book:The 3288 Review: Volume 1, Issue 3
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“I’m an old man, now. I’ve been alone since my 17th birthday. I’d wanted to marry, have a bunch of kids, and maybe be a grandpa. The big family around the Thanksgiving table, laughing and pouring wine and cracking jokes and harmlessly teasing the missus—I wanted that. I wanted to do something good with my life—something right. I didn’t want what happened to Danny, my best childhood friend, to be the only mark I’d ever make in this world. But I thought it best not to fancy such hopes and dreams: a family, love. I’d been cursed by my best friend, and I thought it right not to inflict that curse on anyone who’d be foolish enough to love me.”

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Book:The End of Summer: Thirteen Tales of Halloween
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“People outside the industry pruriently ask how he gets through sex scenes, nudity, baring it physically. They miss the point. Sure, that takes some courage. But, man, it’s ALL like that. Try crying in front of sixty-three people, most of whom are there to do jobs like lighting your face so the tears are in focus while the snot and spit fall behind — or surrounding you with mics to make sure the sound of your sobbing, disconsolate self falling apart is picked up cleanly, so you won’t have to dub over it in post six months later. That crew of people, expertly watching you turn feral with the grief that’s causing your character to make monumentally bad decisions leading to the epiphany that finally turns it around in the third act. Could anything be more naked, more intimate than tearing your soul inside out in service to the story? It’s tantric. Visceral.”

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Book:Unbraiding: Actor | Producer | Father: A Story in Three Strands
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“On a nightstand in a teenager’s room, a glass vase filled with violets leans precariously against a wall. The only thing saving the vase from a thousand-piece death on the hardwood floor is the groove in the nightstand’s surface that catches the bottom of vase, and of course the wall itself. The violets, nearly a week old, droop in the light of a waning gibbous moon. Wrinkled petals are already piling up on the floor between the nightstand and the wall, and a girl only six days sixteen stares at the dying bouquet from her bed.”

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Book:Emily Smiles for April
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“He cradles the egg like treasure and shows me the catalog of the Viking bearded seal figurines. Before this series, Kinder launched the Russian bears, the Canadian caribou, the French poodles—I remember a mime, a pastry chef, and a can-can dancer with a jaunty red beret—the Majorcan hedgehogs, and the Egyptian camels, painted to resemble the gods of hieroglyphs. Ridiculous trinkets forming an international circus of moronic animals.”

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Book:The Kindness of Terrible People and Other Stories
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“On the street, cars hurtled toward their destinations in a symphony of sound. Trees lined the pavement in a powerful show of survival: here they stood in this urban landscape, long-limbed and capable. And green, so green, sunlight pierced through their leaves and marked the concrete with dappled grays. I made my way home to my family, one among a million travelers crossing the city’s great canvas in quick strokes. Everywhere there were colors by the thousands—tint upon tint, shade after shade—of everything the spectrum of beauty satisfied. Everywhere, there were signs of the renewal and restoration of life.”

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Book:The Kindness of Terrible People and Other Stories
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“My decision to become a teacher suddenly seemed even more appropriate. Life had just become that much more unpredictably precarious and ill-suited to long-term planning, and it felt that much more necessary to spread love and knowledge to those who would one day have to manage this messy and painful world of ours" Also in Zack Love's "Stories and Scripts: an Anthology”

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Book:The Doorman
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