Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.— Patrick Rothfuss
Genuine Shadow Of The Wind quotations
If there is no wind, row.
Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen.
People tend to complicate their own lives, as if living weren't already complicated enough.
The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjust the sails.
A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.
Truth ... Is a breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom; Long have I pursued it, But never have I touched The hem of its garment.
A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.
The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. The leader adjusts the sails.
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
All true stories begin and end in a cemetery" - The Shadow of the Wind
We were in the shadow of the mountains, the light was cool and quiet and no wind was stirring. The aspen trunks were slightly greenish and the leaves were a vibrant yellow.
We cant direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails.
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul.
The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
Memory is like patches of sunlight in an overcast valley, shifting with the movement of the clouds. Now and then the light will fall on a particular point in time, illuminating it for a moment before the wind seals up the gap, and the world is in shadows again.
Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
You say you love rain, but you use an umbrella to walk under it. You say you love sun, but you seek shade when it is shining. You say you love wind, but when it comes you close your window. So that's why I'm scared when you say you love me.
And so she comes to dream herself the tree, The wind possessing her, weaving her young veins, Holding her to the sky and its quick blue, Drowning the fever of her hands in sunlight. She has no memory, nor fear, nor hope Beyond the grass and shadows at her feet.
Sometimes we think people are like lottery tickets, that they're there to make our most absurd dreams come true.
Lonely trees are not lonely; they have their eternal companies: Songs of the birds; shadows of the clouds; lights of the Moon; whispers of the winds... Lonely trees are not lonely!
I can't always change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.
. . .sometimes one feels freer speaking to a stranger than to people one knows. Why is that?" “Probably because a stranger sees us the way we are, not as he wishes to think we are.
It’s a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.
Behind the big names of twentieth-century literature there stands a shadow cabinet of writers waiting to take over once the Wind of Change has blown. My own vote goes to Hugh Kingsmill as leader of this opposition.
Those who are able to see beyond the shadows and lies of their culture will never be understood, let alone believed, by the masses.
Destiny doesn't do home visits... you have to go for it yourself.
Presents are made for the pleasure of who gives them, not the merits of who receives them.
The moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you've already stopped loving that person forever.
We can't direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails.
The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope;
big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them.
So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and listen, You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun. And the trees in the Shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight glisten, And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done.
When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it.
A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.
Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
Destiny is usually just around the corner.
Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.
When the winds of change blow, some people build walls and others build windmills.
The man who never reads lives only one.
But in good time you'll see that sometimes what matters isn't what one gives but what one gives up.
I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day.
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw of the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in you sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
Nobody knows much about women, not even Freud, not even women themselves.
But it's like electricity: you don't need to know how it works to get a shock on the fingers.
A secret's worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept.
People talk too much. Humans aren't descended from monkeys. They come from parrots.
Long drawn, the cool, green shadows Steal o'er the lake's warm breast, And the ancient silence follows The burning sun to rest. The calm of a thousand summers, And dreams of countless Junes, Return when the lake-wind murmurs Through golden August noons.
A book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us.