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Storyteller Quotes

Browse 557 quotes about Storyteller.

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Storyteller Quotes

“It was entirely taken for granted that there wasn't any lying in our family, and I was advanced in adolescence before I realized that in plenty of homes where I played with schoolmates, and went to their parties, children lied to their parents and parents lied to their children and to each other. It took me a long time to realize that these very same everyday lies, and the stratagems and jokes and tricks and dares that went with them, were in fact the basis of the scenes I so well loved to hear about and hoped for and treasured in the conversation of adults. My instinct - the dramatic instinct - was to lead me, eventually, on the right track for a storyteller: the scene was full of hints, pointers, suggestions, and promises of things to find out and know about human beings.I had to grow up and learn to listen for the unspoken as well as the spoken - and to know a truth, I also had to recognize a lie.”

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Author:Eudora Welty
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“It was very nice to realize how we can cancel the space that apparently divides people, and share with them our stories as if they were part of the same experience, bringing them closer to us. And I think that's the beauty of a story: you have the chance to live it somehow through the feelings of the storyteller.”

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Book:THE UNSTOPPABLE THIRST : El Camino de Santiago de Compostela An Alchemic Path Towards The Inner Self
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“Our stories hold unique inspiration for one another.”

Inspirational QuotesInspirational LifeWise WordsWisdom QuotesEmpathyEmpowermentLove StoryWise QuotesDaily LifePurpose Of LifeWise SayingsUniquenessStorytellerWriting LifeWriting AdviceWriting QuotesTravel QuotesLoving PeopleCaring For OthersPurpose QuotesStory Of My LifeYour JourneyWriting PhilosophyLoving KindnessInspired SoulAdvice For Daily LivingDaily LivingInspired LifeAdvice QuotesFulfilling Your PotentialGiving QuotesFulfilling Your DestinyPotential QuotesHumanity AdvicePotential For GreatnessSharing LifeInspired QuotesInspiring Quotes On LifeEncourage YourselfGiving LoveEncouragement And AttitudeCaring QuotesAdvice For WritersAdvice To DaughterCaring And LovingSharing QuotesSharing The GospelEncouraging And Empowering GirlsSharing Is CaringSharing PainSharing ThoughtsSharing Your GiftsStorybookYour UniquenessAdvice To BeginnersCaring Heart WarmingCaring Loved One
Book:Think Great: Be Great!
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“Tell your story to inspired other people to rise up and live their dreams.”

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Author:Lailah Gifty Akita
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“Well, at least this is what I told myself every day as I fell asleep with the fire still burning and the moon shining high up in the sky and my head spinning comforting from two bottles of wine, and I smiled with tears in my eyes because it was beautiful and so god damn sad and I did not know how to be one of those without the other.”

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Book:Another Vagabond Lost To Love: Berlin Stories on Leaving & Arriving
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“We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.”

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Author:Kamand Kojouri
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“I am the story teller, charged with the secrets of this world and beyond. I am the calm in the storm, the quiet in the quake and the stillness in the dark. I am the old lady with the pot of water when you are dying of thirst. I am the sapling after the forest fire and the child who survives after pestilence. For those who will listen, hear you the first secret. Love is the sea in which all of nature exists and the greatest love of all is that which is spilled for another.”

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Author:Kaizen Kobe
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“This is my gift to you and your reward, Tom Mulligan, maker of ballads and journeyman worker in fine tales. 'Tis more than your wish was. Nayther you nor anyone who sits at your table, through all your life, will ever want a bite to ate or a sup to dhrink, nor yet a silver shilling to cheer him on his way. Good luck to all here and goodbye!" Even as they looked at the King he was gone, vanished like a light that's blown out-and they never saw him more. But the news spread. Musicianers, poets, and story-tellers, and jayniouses flocked to the ballad maker's cabin from all over Ireland. Any fine day in the year one might see them gather in dozen knots before his door and into as many little crowds about the stable. In each crowd, from morning till night, there was a chune being played, a ballad sung, or a story being tould. Always one could find there blacksmiths, schoolmasters, and tinkers, and all trades, but the greater number be far, av coorse, were beggarmen. Nor is that same to be wondhered at, bekase every jaynious, if he had his own way and could folly his own heart's desire'd start to-morrow at daybreak with the beggarman's staff and bag. But wherever they came from, and whatever their station, Tom Mulligan stumped on his wooden leg from crowd to crowd, the jovial, happy master of them all.”

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Book:Darby O'Gill and the Good People
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“I am a story-teller, even a story-teller of renown. May I add now that I am not much to look at? No, I am serious. My face is hideous. A look at me reminds one of a little finger – brown - enlarged to the proportions of a human body, wrapped two thirds down with a cloth about the loins, the entire frame resting on two wobbly knees. I was born bald and not a single strand of hair has ever sprouted on this miserable head. Think of me as a faceless man; in fact, I would rather you think of me as just a voice.”

VoiceStorytellerHideousFacelessBald
Book:The Thugs & a Courtesan
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“I would travel far and wide...seeing, listening, creating. I would weave tales for an enthralled audience. A song would be heard throughout the kingdom, and I would be a part of that. You would normally think that a bard would pick up his tales from stories heard in his travels or, perhaps, from personal observation of these events. Perhaps some bards would create the stories themselves or, at least, adapt the original versions heard... But what if the bard were really more than a bard? What if he were once a gallant knight or an old sea captain...perhaps even a forgotten prince? What if the stories he told, what if the characters brought to life in his stories, were really of his comrades and himself? Stories from long ago that he finally wished to be heard? What if those who listened to his tales, all the while assuming that they were far disconnected from their communicator, were really listening to the narrative of a wanderer intimately connected to it all? And where would such an individual go when his final days as an “official” bard were spent? Perhaps he would decide to retire in a lighthouse. For, surely, no place would be more fitting for the hero emeritus. He would gaze upon the glorious sea in recollection...guiding others with the beacon of light atop his home as he had once been shepherded. The adventurer became the storyteller...and then the Sentinel of the Sea.”

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Book:I Thirst
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“When Sam told this story to Sadie, she laughed, though she barely seemed to be listening. He had framed the story in a humorous way, smoothed off some of the edges of his hostility toward the woman in the park. But as he told it, he could feel himself back in that dog park. He could feel the dry California heat and the murderous pounding of his heart. Without warning, an anecdote he had meant to be amusing did not feel amusing. Anyone, who had truly looked at Tuesday could not have possibly seen a coyote. But the woman had not truly looked, and the injustice of this hit him. Why was is it acceptable for apparently well-meaning people to see the world in such a general way? Sam was put off by Sadie's laughter. He asked her what was funny. She was confused for a moment---hadn't he wanted her to laugh?---and then she said, annoyed, "You get that this a story about you, right? That's why you lost your mind at a dog park. You're Tuesday. You're the incredibly special dog that no one can classify." It was not long after their huge argument, and things were quite strained between them. Sam told her that she was being reductive, and that her interpretation was insulting to both him and the dog. "It's a story about Tuesday," he insisted. "Maybe it's a story about L.A., too. Maybe it's a story about the kind of people that go to the dog park in Silver Lake. But it's mainly a story about Tuesday." "The text," she said, "perhaps.”

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Book:Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
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“As I sat on the back of his bike, Anh Bao pointed out local sex workers he recognized as they walked out of a bar with their arms wrapped around Viet Kieu men. He had gotten to know these women when he parked his bike outside the bar around closing time to offer cheap rides home to the women who had been unable to secure a client for the evening. Over the course of nearly three hours spent cycling the city, I took everything in—making mental notes of things I would later enter into my research. Anh Bao was a storyteller; and as we stopped outside each place, I propped on his bike laughing as he made up dramatic scenarios about the kinds of love affairs that occurred in each segment of the sex industry.”

WomenResearchStorytellingStorytellerScenariosSex WorkersClosing TimeSex IndustryLove AffairsMental Notes
Author:Kimberly Kay Hoang
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“You know that when a utility company is going down the fantasy route, they are likely hiding some illegal activity that they are engaging in. Fabricating fictional stories to their government regulator is just one of the many illegal activities that they engage in.”

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Book:Curing Electromagnetic Hypersensitivity
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“Different ways to tell a story. Some tellers make a noise to announce the coming of the story for get someone else to call everyone's attention. Some wait for people to gather around, for the quiet to settle. Others just begin. They don't wait for everyone to lean in - that'll happen soon enough. They don't speak loudly or even want everyone to hear. Those that hear are the ones the story was meant for.”

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Book:A Grandmother Begins the Story
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“I doubt I was much of a storyteller, but I would have put that smile in my book. On page 104, right next to the image of the Ward. I would have written it on my heart. I would have proofread it a thousand times under a thousand moons until a thousand tears thoroughly rationalized what it meant to me. Each time for when I’d met the darkness, and then succumbed. The smile read “you can’t break me’”—bold and in italics.”

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Book:Asylum 54.0
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