Enchantress Quotes

Think of every fairy-tale villainess you've ever heard of. Think of the wicked witches, the evil queens, the mad enchantresses. Think of the alluring sirens, the hungry ogresses, the savage she-beasts. Think of them and remember that somewhere, sometime, they've all been real. Mab gave them lessons.

Love is an enchantress—devious and wild. It sneaks up behind you, soft and gentle and quiet, just before it slits your throat.

Anyone can have a once-upon-a-time or a happily-ever-after, but it's the journey between that makes the story worth telling.

When in doubt, we follow our hearts. Words can be false, images and sounds can be manipulated. But this...' He tapped his chest, over his heart. 'This is always true.

What is the greatest mistake a parent can make?' she asked. 'To believe that your children will be just like you.

People only love you as long as they're getting something of you, but the minute you say something they don't want to hear or do something they don't want to see, all the admiration drains from their hearts.

Intelligence is not a competition," she said. "There is plenty to go around, and there are many ways it can be demonstrated.

Lady of the silver moon Enchantress of the night Protect me and mine within this circle fairly cast. Earth Mother, mother of the sleeping earth, Keep safe all who gather here Within the protective shelter of your arms. By the earth that is Her body, By the air that is Her breath, By the fire that is Her bright spirit, And by the living waters of Her womb, Our circle is cast, None shall come to harm here, From any forces, On any level. As we will, So shall it be done. As we will, So mote it be.

Last night, Dixon had suggested combat boots in place of Carrow’s own—her two-thousand-dollar, gathered-leather, over-the-knee boots. “Do you want me to go in as an enchantress or a warrior?” Carrow had asked testily. “Pick a caste, any caste, mortal. I myself think I have the best chance as an enchantress. And fuck-me boots are standard-issue.

A warrior with a cause is the most dangerous soldier of all

The cruelest thing you can do to someone is force them to hurt alone

Make as much racket as you like people. Noise is life and an excess of noise is a sign that life is good. There will be time for us all to be quiet when we are safely dead.

My most scientific analysis, with all means of science and technology in mind, is that it's magic.

Jealousy is just a reminder of the frustrations you have with yourself.

We do not always get what we want. Sometimes life presents us with surprises.

Distance makes everything beautiful.

Your home is where you feel most comfortable and loved,

As long as someone remains standing with a noble heart there will always be a way for good to triumph over evil.

If you were an atheist, Birbal," the Emperor challenged his first minister, "what would you say to the true believers of all the great religions of the world?" Birbal was a devout Brahmin from Trivikrampur, but he answered unhesitatingly, "I would say to them that in my opinion they were all atheists as well; I merely believe in one god less than each of them." "How so?" the Emperor asked. "All true believers have good reasons for disbelieving in every god except their own," said Birbal. "And so it is they who, between them, give me all the reasons for believing in none." -- From "The Shelter of the World

There was no honor in war, less in killing, and none in dying. But there was true dignity in how men comported themselves in battle. And there was always honor to be found in standing for a just cause and defending the defenseless.

JUST BECAUSE ANYONE CAN, DOESN'T MEAN EVERYONE SHOULD (Mrs. Peters to Conner Bailey)

For every tear that rolled down Conner's face there were a dozen he fought back.

What are our options? If I have the choice of being doubtful or being hopeful, I’m going to choose hopeful. It takes less work to be positive.

My horizon's have shrunk and I have only endings to write.

This may be the curse of human race . Not that we are different from one anther , but we are so alike .

In my experience, we only ever regret the things we have not done

Without water we are nothing", the traveler thought. "Even an emperor, denied water, would swiftly turn to dust. Water is the real monarch and we are all its slaves.

There's nothing you're going to say now or in a year that I wouldn't have thought about a hundred times," Alex said.

But anyone can write, right?'" Conner asked. "I mean, that's why authors get judged so harshly, isn't it? Because technically everyone could do it if they wanted to." "Just because anyone can do something doesn't mean everyone should," Mrs. Peters said. "Besides, anyone with an Internet connection feels they have the credentials to critique or belittle anything these days.

Wherever goodness lay, it did not lie in ritual, unthinking obeisance before a deity but rather, perhaps, in the slow clumsy, error-strewn working out of an individual or collective path.

Thank you for your enthusiasm. Earlier today I told another student I was getting new encyclopedias - he asked me how long I'd be in the hospital!

All true believers have good reasons for disbelieving in every god except their own,' said Birbal, 'and so it is they who, between them, give me all the reasons for believing in none.

No man is ever just one thing.

Language upon a silvered tongue affords enchantment enough.

The human mind is incredible. It can do nothing without belief, yet practically anything with it.

Having something worth telling and a passion to tell it are what make you a good writer. I can't tell you how many times I've read novels or articles that used complicated words and witty wordplay to cover up the fact that they had absolutely no story to tell. A good story should be enjoyed; sometimes simplicity can go a long way.

Travel was pointless. It removed you from the place in which you had a meaning, and to which you gave meaning in return by dedicating your life to it, and it spirited you away into fairylands where you were, and looked, frankly absurd.

I'm sorry I could never be the brother you wanted," Rumpelstiltskin said. "But one day I'll make things right between us. One day I'll be a brother you can be proud of.

There are some adventures not worth having.

Forgiveness is what we all need to forget the past, even if we

Should we call her?Maybe we should give her a RING to see where she is? Get it? Get it? -Conner Bailey

People who love each other can no more keep from communicating than from breathing.

...that witchcraft requires no potions, familiar spirits, or magic wands. Language upon a silver tongue affords enchantment enough.

Thus the Great Mother is uroboric: terrible and devouring, beneficent and creative; a helper, but also alluring and destructive; a maddening enchantress, yet a bringer of wisdom; bestial and divine, voluptuous harlot and inviolable virgin, immemori-ally old and eternally young.4

Do I look like an expert in cloaked mammals?

Her hands flew to her mouth. 'Are we even twins?' Josh rested his hand on her shoulder and brought his forehead to rest against hers, strands of their blond hair mingling. 'I will always be your brother, Sophie. I will always look after you.

He had picked up languages the way most sailors pick up diseases; languages were his gonorrhoea, his syphilis, his scurvy, his ague, his plague.

Say something to it!” Alex elbowed her brother. “What am I supposed to say? I don’t speak ghost!” The spirit stopped and hovered a few feet in front of them.

So the captain, the first officer and the ship's doctor and sometimes the engineer all beam down to a planet. Together." "The entire complement of the senior officers?" Billy nodded "And who has the command of the ship?" "I don't know. Junior officers I guess." "If they worked for me I would have them court-martialed. That sounds like a dereliction of duty." "I know. I know. I always thought it odd myself. But that's not the point." "What is the point?" "They're usually accompanied by a guy in the red shirt. Always a crew member you've never seen before. And as soon as you see the shirt, you know he's going to die.

Why obliterate the exceptional merely in order to make the outstanding look finer than it was?

Must a man then live as his fellows live, and never reach beyond?

Have you any idea how to wake a hibernating Elder?” Machiavelli shook his head. “Mars, what about you? Any advice?” “Yes. Don’t.

Anyone who thinks the sky is the limit, has limited imagination.

Thank you for joining me today, Hoodians! I wish you all peace and poverty!” “Prosperity, my dear! Prosperity!” Froggy corrected her. “I mean peace and prosperity!” Red declared.

Knowledge was never simply born in the human mind; it was always reborn. The relaying of wisdom from one age to the next, this cycle of rebirths: this was wisdom.

Tell me, storyteller, what is the greatest mistake a parent can make? -To believe that your children will be just like you

O blessed idleness! Divine lazy nymph! Reach me a novel as I lie in my dressing-gown at three o'clock in the afternoon; compound a sherry-cobbler for me, and bring me a cigar! Dear slatternly, smiling Enchantress! They may assail thee with bad names—swear thy character away, and call thee the Mother of Evil; but, for all that, thou art the best company in the world!

Would you that ever find yourself walking the Road, trudging without purpose, seeking some journey's end, I give you this warning. The Road is a living being. She is an enchantress and She has a long reach.

Think of every fairy-tale villainess you've ever heard of. Think of the wicked witches, the evil queens, the mad enchantresses. Think of the alluring sirens, the hungry ogresses, the savage she-beasts. Think of them and remember that somewhere, sometime, they've all been real.

He was seated on the bench now. He had his left elbow on his knee, his right arm across his lap, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. White face, red hair: snow and fire, like something from an old tale. The book I had noticed earlier was on the bench beside him, its covers shut. Around Anluan's feet and in the birdbath, small visitors to the garden hopped and splashed and made the most of the day that was becoming fair and sunny. He did not seem to notice them. As for me, I found it difficult to take my eyes from him. There was an odd beauty in his isolation and his sadness, like that of a forlorn prince ensorcelled by a wicked enchantress, or a traveller lost forever in a world far from home.

A demonstration is more than worth a thousand words.

Just because anyone can do something doesn't mean everyone should. Besides, anyone with an Internet connection feels they have the credentials to critique or belittle anythimg these days

What is it, I wonder, that makes two people suddenly become important to each other? So important that everything else around them just fades away?

History could claw upward as well as down. The powerful could be deafened by the cries of the poor.

Do I look like I watch Star Trek?

If you all will please excuse me,” Red said and headed out of the courtyard. “I think I’m going to lie down for a minute. My life has suddenly become a Shakeyfruit play.

Always have a plan B and a friend with bail, and you’re guaranteed to never fail,” Mother Goose said and took another drink. “That’s my motto.

...Until they stood at last by a crumbling wall, looking up and up and still farther up at the great tombyard top of the old house. For that's what it seemed. The high mountain peak of the mansion was littered with what looked like black bones or iron rods, and enough chimneys to choke out smoke signals from three dozen fires on sooty hearths hidden far below in dim bowels of this monster place. With so many chimneys, the roof seemed a vast cemetery, each chimney signifying the burial place of some old god of fire or enchantress of steam, smoke, and firefly spark. even as they watched, a kind of bleak exhalation of soot breathed up out of some four dozen flues, darkening the sky still more, and putting out some few stars.

Sometimes by a woodland stream he watched the water rush over the pebbled bed, its tiny modulations of bounce and flow. A woman's body was like that. If you watched it carefully enough you could see how it moved to the rhythm of the world, the deep rhythm, the music below the music, the truth below the truth. He believed in this hidden truth the way other men believed in God or love, believed that truth was in fact always hidden, that the apparent, the overt, was invariably a kind of lie.

Perenelle shuddered. "You know I hate leprechauns more than almost anything.

To quote a girl I know, ‘My most scientific analysis, with all means of science and technology in mind, is that it’s magic,’ ” he said. Alex laughed. “How do you remember that?” she

You see, I came into this world just like I’m assuming you did—full of excitement and promise. I wanted to do so much good work, help so many people, and give as much as I could to those who needed me. But then I learned a very harsh lesson—the world doesn’t always give back. I am not a tragic case of the world; I am the world—cruel, unfair, and not a fairy tale. People are not born heroes or villains; they’re created by the people around them. And one day when your bright-eyed and bushy-tailed view of life gets its first taste of reality, when bitterness and anger first run through your veins, you’ll discover that you are just like me—and it’ll scare you to death.

There are different kinds of truth. And if our kind is more mature than theirs, it's so only because we know that.

night. “Will you ever teach us magic, Grandma?

Then a strange moment came, a moment of the kind that determines the fate of nations, because when a crowd loses its fear of an army the world changes.

I don't need my Other-half, I'm not a HALF...

After seeing amazing magical places like Neverland, Oz, Narnia and Wonderland, why did you ever want to leave?" The girls looked to one another; they had never been asked the question before, at least in Alex's mind. "Because no matter where you go or what you see, you'll always want to be where you belong," Lucy said. "Your home is where you feel most comfortable and loved," Wendy said. "It's a part of you," Alice added. "It's where your family is." "There's no place like home," Dorothy said, as if it was the first time she'd ever said those words. Alex appreciated what they had to say, but wasn't sure if she entirely agreed. "I wonder, though, if home sometimes isn't where you're from," she said. The girls looked at her as if she had already answered her own question. Alex wondered if that had been the real question lingering in her mind all along.

BILLY: Did you ever watch Star Trek? MACHIAVELLI: Do I look like I watch Star Trek? BILLY: It's hard to tell who's a Trekkie. MACHIAVELLI: Billy, I ran one of the most sophisticated secret service organizations in the world. I did not have time for Star Trek. (pause) I was more of a Star Wars fan. Why do you ask? BILLY: Well, when Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock beamed down to a planet, usually with Dr. McCoy and sometimes with Scotty from engineering... MACHIAVELLI: Wait a minute--what's Mr. Spock again? BILLY: A Vulcan. MACHIAVELLI: His rank. BILLY: The first officer. MACHIAVELLI: So the captain, the first officer, the ship's doctor, and sometimes the engineer all beam down to a planet. Together. The entire complement of the senior officers? BILLY: (nods) MACHIAVELLI: And who has command of the ship? BILLY: (shrug) I don't know. Junior officers, I guess. MACHIAVELLI: If they worked for me I'd have them court-martialed. That sounds like a gross dereliction of duty. BILLY: I know. I always thought it was a little odd myself.

NO" made him angry but set her free.

Sometimes I think if I blink, you'll disappear

Every time history repeats itself, the price goes up.

The greatest test of courage is to bear defeat without losing heart. —The Evermen Cycles,

Do you know the greatest gift a parent can give to a child?” she asked, looking around the room. No one answered. “Independence. To allow them go out into the world and make their own decisions, travel their own paths.

Don’t be creative. Don’t be stupid.” “That’s what Machiavelli said. You guys really have a lot of faith in me, don’t you?” “Neither one of us wants to lose you. Just be careful, Billy. Careful is my middle name.” Black Hawk rolled his eyes. “You told me it was Henry.

Or maybe he just rediscovered his humanity,” Niten said quietly. “Maybe someone reminded him that he is human first, immortal second.” “You said as if you are speaking from personal experience,” Perenelle said.” “I am,” he said softly. “There was a time when I was . . . wild.” “What happened?” He smiled. “I met a redheaded Irish warrior.” “And fell in love?” she teased. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.

She sauntered in the August rain With an endless rhythm of pain, With a desire to run To reach his arms that warmed her, Like sweet summer's sun!

He did not wish to be divine. If there had never been a God, the emperor thought, it might have been easier to work out what goodness was. This business of worship, of the abnegation of self in the face of the Almighty, was a distraction, a false trail. Wherever goodness lay, it did not lie in ritual, unthinking obeisance before a deity but rather, perhaps, in the slow, clumsy, error-strewn working out of an individual or collective path.

This was what was left of a human individual when you took away his home,his family, his friends, his city, his country,his world: a being without context, whose past had faded, whose future was bleak, an entity stripped of name, of meaning,of the whole of life except a temporarily beating heart.

Madam Yennefer, Forgive me. I'm riding to Hirundum because I want to see Geralt. I want to see him before I start school. Forgive my disobedience, but I must. I know you'll punish me, but I don't want to regret my indecision and hesitation. If I'm to have regrets, let them be for deeds and actions. I'm an enchantress. I seize life by the scruff of the neck. I'll return when I can. - Ciri

Niten drew in a deep shuddering breath and the air was suffused with the delicate odor of green tea. “And Tsagaglalal . . .” “Yes, Father?” Prometheus closed his eyes. “Tell Niten to find Aoife and ask her the question. Tell him . . . tell him she will say yes.

How the mighty have fallen,” he said, looking down on Aten. Ard-Greimne was short and incredibly sensitive about his height. He always wore shoes with lifts in them. When Aten didn’t respond, he tried again. “I said, how the mighty—” “It wasn’t funny or even clever the first time you said it,” Aten said. “Nor is it original.

And now that they have us here, under their control, they've dropped whatever act they had on earth. We're seeing them as they really are.' He dipped his glove into the water and watched as the water turned golden. The air suddenly smelled of citrus. 'Look! It's orange juice!' 'Josh, focus!' 'You sound just like Mom or Isis or whatever her name is.

Guess I can’t go back to working for Quetzalcoatl, eh?” “When this is over, Billy,” Black Hawk said. “I think maybe we should go and visit the feathered serpent. Hand in our resignations. I’ll bring a box of matches.” “You going to toast some marshmallows with him?” “I’ll toast something,” Black Hawk promised.

All men, at one time or another, have fallen in love with the veiled Isis whom they call Truth. With most, this has been a passing passion: they have early seen its hopelessness and turned to more practical things. But others remain all their lives the devout lovers of reality: though the manner of their love, the vision which they make to themselves of the beloved object varies enormously. Some see Truth as Dante saw Beatrice: an adorable yet intangible figure, found in this world yet revealing the next. To others she seems rather an evil but an irresistible enchantress: enticing, demanding payment and betraying her lover at the last. Some have seen her in a test tube, and some in a poet’s dream: some before the altar, others in the slime. The extreme pragmatists have even sought her in the kitchen; declaring that she may best be recognized by her utility. Last stage of all, the philosophic sceptic has comforted an unsuccessful courtship by assuring himself that his mistress is not really there.

Fine, I’ll pick ‘Sleeping Beauty,’” he decided. “Interesting selection,” Alex said, intrigued. “What do you suppose the moral of that story is?” “Don’t piss off your neighbors, I guess,” Conner said. Alex grunted disapprovingly. “Be serious, Conner! That is not the moral of ‘Sleeping Beauty,’” she reprimanded. “Sure it is,” Conner explained. “If the king and queen had just invited that crazy enchantress to their daughter’s party in the first place, none of that stuff ever would have happened.” “They couldn’t have stopped it from happening,” said Alex. “That enchantress was evil and probably would have cursed the baby princess anyway. ‘Sleeping Beauty’ is about trying to prevent the unpreventable. Her parents tried protecting her and had all the spinning wheels in the kingdom destroyed. She was so sheltered, she didn’t even know what the danger was, and she still pricked her finger on the first spindle she ever saw.” Conner thought about this possibility and shook his head. He liked his version much better. “I disagree,” Conner told her. “I’ve seen how upset you get when people don’t invite you places, and you usually look like you would curse a baby, too.” Alex gave Conner a dirty look Mrs. Peters would have been proud of. “While there’s no such thing as a wrong interpretation, I have to say that is definitely a misread,” Alex said. “I’m just saying to be careful who you ignore,” Conner clarified. “I always thought Sleeping Beauty’s parents had it coming.” “Oh?

To a Familiar Genius Flying By Reveal yourself, anonymous enchanter! What heaven hastens you to me? Why draw me to that promised land again That I gave up so long ago? Was it not you who in my youth Enchanted me with such sweet dreams, Did you not whisper, long ago, Dear hopes of a guests ethereal? Was it not you through whom all lived In golden days, in happy lands Of fragrant meadows, waters bright, Where days were merry ?neath clear skies? Was it not you who breathed into my vernal breast Some melancholy mysteries Tormenting it with keen desire Exciting it to anxious joy? Was it not you who bore my soul aloft Upon the inspiration of your sacred verse, Who flamed before me like a holy vision, Initiating me into life's beauty? In hours lost, hours of secret grief, Did you not always murmur to my heart, With happy comfort soothe it And nurture it with quiet hope? Did not my soul forever heed you In all the purest moments of my life When'ere it glimpsed fate's sacred essence With only God to witness it? What news bring you, O, my enchantress? Or will you once more call in dreams Awaken futile thoughts of old, Whisper of joy and then fall silent? O spirit, bide with me awhile; O, faithful friend, haste not away; Stay, please become my earthly life, O, Guardian angel of my soul.

The small group hugged one another quickly. Although nothing was said, they knew this could be the last time they ever saw one another again. Saint-Germain kissed Joan before they parted. “I love you,” he said softly. She nodded, slate-grey eyes shimmering behind tears. “When all this is over, I suggest we go on a second honeymoon,” he said. “I’d like that.” Joan smiled. “Hawaii is always nice at this time of year. And you do know I love it there.” Saint-Germain shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere that has a volcano.” “I love you,” she whispered, and turned away before they could see each other cry.

Mist swirled and the Spartoi closed in on the defenseless Niten. Lightning fast, one lashed out at him, catching him a blow on the thigh, and he fell to the bridge with a grunt of pain. He lay flat on his back, looked up at the lizard-like creatures and realized that he was going to die. The immortal felt just the vaguest pang of regret: He had always wanted to die in his beloved Japan and he had made Aoife promise that if he fell in some foreign country or shadowrealm, she would bring his body back to Reigando in the southwest of his country. But Aoife was gone. He would never be able to fulfill his promise to rescue her. And he would never rest in his home soil.

Niccolo Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.” “The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian. Over three thousand years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages. “Forgive me. I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.” “Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.” Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.

The small Japanese immortal sat cross-legged, his two swords resting flat on the ground before him. He folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and breathing through his nose, forcing the chill night air deep into his chest. He held it for a count of five, then shaped his lips into an O and blew it out again, puncturing a tiny hole in the swirling fog before his face. Even though he would never admit it to anyone, Niten loved this moment. He had no affection for what was to come, but this brief time, when all preparations for battle were made and there was nothing left to do but wait, when the world felt still, as if it was holding its breath, was special. This moment, when he was facing death, was when he felt completely, fully alive. He’d still been called Miyamoto Musashi and had been a teenager when he’d first discovered the genuine beauty of the quiet moment before a fight. Every breath suddenly tasted like the finest food, every sound was distinct and divine, and even on the foulest battlefields, his eyes would be drawn to something simple and elegant: a flower, the shape of a branch, the curl of a cloud. A hundred years ago, Aoife had given him a book as a birthday present. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that she’d missed his birthday by a month, but he had treasured the book, the first edition of The Professor by Charlotte Bronte. It included a line he had never forgotten: In the midst of life we are in death. Years later, he’d heard Ghandi take the same words and shift them around to create something that resonated deeply within him: In the midst of death life persists.