Fairies Peter Pan Quotes

When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.

Fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time.

Tink was not all bad: or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time. They are, however, allowed to change, only it must be a complete change.

It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children.

Fairies don’t live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them

David tells me that fairies never say 'We feel happy': what they say is, 'We feel dancey'.

The fairies, as their custom, clapped their hands with delight over their cleverness, and they were so madly in love with the little house that they could not bear to think they had finished it.

The Wizard Of Oz" has secrets that are just too much. Or "Peter Pan" – the whole 'lost boys' thing is just incredible. They’re not childlike at all, they’re really, really deep; you can rule your life by them. Or say 'child-like', because children are the most brilliant people of all, that’s why they relate to those stories so well. Fairy-tales are wonderful.

When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her, he said, ‘Who is Tinker Bell?’ ‘O Peter,’ she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember. ‘There are such a lot of them,’ he said. ‘I expect she is no more.’ I expect he was right, for fairies don’t live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them.

…This place was once like your Enchanted Forest is- home to tens of thousands of fairies. But that was many ages ago, before the Kingdom of Britain was established. In those early days, the fairies ruled over the land.

After a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy.

A moment after the fairy's entrance the window was blown open by the breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in.

She says she glories in being abandoned

Not all who are lost are lost forever.

Don't be afraid to grow up, Peter. It's only a trap if you forget how to fly.

The fast fliers are not disgraced." Queen Ree reached up for the missing tiara. "She saved us, but she's with him now." Vidia was complicated, two fairies in one, a loyal traitor.

A common question asked of Mr. Fenn was, “How old is the boy?” to which Mr. Fenn’s reply, year after year, was, “He has been somewhere between twelve and thirteen since the day I laid eyes on him.

I shook my head, folding my arms around my waist. He was wrong; he was the one offering fairy dust, Peter Pan offering to carry me off to the Neverland of soulfinders and happily ever after. But he was too late. Last night i had to grew up and I now knew that such dreams did not exist; real life was more like living with Captain Hook's mercenary pirates than playing happy families in a treehouse

Prince of the Enchanted Forest. Adopted son of the Fairy Folk. Wild Boy. Your reputation precedes you, child. All of Germany has been talking about you lately. And yet, no one knows your name.” The boy looked up at the King and smiled. The king smiled back, and took a deep breath. “…Henceforth, you shall be known as Peter.

You are too late," he cried proudly, "I have shot the Wendy. Peter will be so pleased with me." Overhead Tinker Bell shouted "Silly ass!" and darted into hiding.

What if I fall oh but my darling what if you fly

Whenever a child says "I don't believe in fairies" there's a little fairy somewhere that falls right down dead

…I remember this tree!” I exclaimed. “We used to climb it all the time.” Peter seemed to have this in mind also, because as I spoke he was already starting to climb the tree. “You don’t expect me to climb that tree in this dress, do you,” I said, looking up at him. He smiled down at me. “Of course you do,” I said, shaking my head. “Of course.” Taking off my boots, I began to climb up after Peter.

Because this caring for someone is not what I thought it would be. It's not losing who I am. It's finding my soul interwoven with another - and chasing the stars together. And that might just be the greatest adventure of them all.

...One cannot help but consider the future- what will it be like when all the wild places of the earth have been taken over by civilization, and there is no more room for Indians, Pirates, and Wild Boys?

All children grow up, all but one. His name is Peter and by now, all the civilized world has heard of him. He has captured the public imagination and become a legend, a subject for poets, philosophers and psychologists to write about, and for children to dream of. The children’s tales might be lacking in some details, but on the whole they are more accurate than most other accounts, for children will always understand Peter intuitively, as I did when I first met him. "I shall endeavor to tell you the true story of my friend Peter, because he cannot tell it to you himself. Afterward I hope you will love him and defend him as I have for the remainder of your days. Pass on to others a true account of the wild boy who would not grow up, who danced with kings and won the hearts of princesses. He defied logic and reason, lived and loved with an innocent heart, and found peace in the midst of a turbulent world.

You can't deny we work well together. I could be your sidekick, if you want. Like Superman and Lois Lane. Or Peter Pan and Tinker Bell." "Tinker Bell isn't menacing." "Which proves how much you need me," I insisted. "Fairies are terrifying." He sat up straighter and dusted off his pants. "Fairies don't exist. Neither do Graymasons." "That's what humans say about vampires and werewolves," I argued. "So we're agreed.

There is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf.

What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘Wendy Moira Angela Darling,’ she replied with some satisfaction. ‘What is your name?’ ‘Peter Pan.’ She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a comparatively short name. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Yes,’ he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a shortish name. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Wendy Moira Angela. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Peter gulped. She asked where he lived. ‘Second to the right,’ said Peter, ‘and then straight on till morning.’ ‘What a funny address!’ Peter had a sinking feeling. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny address. “A moment after the fairy’s entrance the window was blow open by the breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in.

I guess its time you officially met the lost boys," I said to Daniel. "Lost boys? You mean like that old Kiefer Sutherland movie? "What? No, I mean like Peter Pan and the lost boys." "Is she calling us fairies?" Asked Slade. "No," Brent said. "She means the lost boys that never wanted to grow up, and got into mischief with Peter Pan." "Still sounds like fairies to me." Slade crossed his tattooed arms in front of his chest. "Still sounds like that Kiefer Sutherland movie to me." Daniel smirked. "We were in the play together, like, seven years ago. You were mad because my mom made you wear tights, but you wanted to be a pirate." Daniel held his hand up. "Partial amnesia here, remember? I must have blocked out any and all recollections associations with said tights." Brent, Zach, and Ryan laughed. Slade almost cracked a smile. ~ Grace, Daniel, and The Lost Boys

There were letters on the bottom, letters he'd seen before, on the ship that had carried him from London, the ship that had broken up on the reef that guarded the island. The letters said: NEVER LAND. Peter looked at it. And then he looked around him--at the lagoon; at the rock where the mermaids (Mermaids!) lounged; at the palm-fringed beach; at the tinkling fairy flitting over his head; at his new friends the Mollusks; at the jungle-covered, pirate-infested mountains looming over it all. Then he looked at the board again, and he laughed out loud. 'That's exactly where I am,' he said.

he decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. They are reputed to know a good deal.

He’d been around the island for a while, and I’m sorry to say that being bashed around in Battle and at raids had done nothing very good for his brains.

He might have run off then, and thus avoided a great many adventures to come, but the girl cried, “Wait!” and he turned to face her. “Please,” she implored from the window. “Don’t go. Come with us. I promise you won’t regret it.” For a moment, Peter stood in the road indecisively, staring into the girl’s eyes as if trying to penetrate a great mystery.

I can't come,' she said apologetically, 'I have forgotten how to fly.' 'I'll soon teach you again.' 'O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.

She blames herself. I hurt from knowing that I hurt her. Even when we know all of these other people are to blame. My friends. The media. Not her. Not me. I can’t help myself. I continue the cycle and I say, “I don’t want to hurt you.” Lily is quiet for a moment before she says, “I’m tougher than you think. You just need to believe in me. You know, like a fairy.” I do believe in fairies. I do. I do. The jubilant chorus from Peter Pan fills my ears. I look up at her, tears in both our eyes. Is that how we end this? I trust that I can share my grief with her and that she won’t crumble beneath the pain? She nods to me like go on. I can handle it.

At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back into her childhood she just remembered a Peter Pan who was said to live with the fairies. There were odd stories about him, as that when children died he went part of the way with them, so that they should not be frightened.

She looks so comfortable in my space. Like she belongs here. I feel my chest warm, and I almost want to laugh. I’ve caught a fairy. “What’s with that smirk?” she asks and crosses her legs. “Just wondering if this is what Peter Pan felt like,” I mumble.

Peter and the deer herd ranged over the forest together, and without words, Peter told the deer about his new life at the Palace, amongst people. The scents that lingered on him told a hundred stories. His expressions and movements too, echoed foreign influences. And in Peter’s eyes, the story was told plainly. They sensed that he had grown not just physically, but in his being he was bigger, more mature. The deer wanted the Wild Boy to return to the Enchanted Forest with them, but they were uncertain he would come. They called him by his forest name, and he replied, “Peter.” The strangeness of this intonation puzzled them.

Escucha, Campanilla —gritó—, ya no soy tu amigo. Aléjate de mí para siempre.

I think of Peter Pan flying off into Neverland, taking Wendy with him. I think of sword fights and fairies. That's how it feels in the clearing—like magic.

Don't you understand? You mean more to me that anything in this entire world.

No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don’t believe in fairies, and every time a child says, ‘I don’t believe in fairies,’ there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.

Summer on the farm was glorious. Peter spent as much time out of doors as possible, and he had many playmates, since all the children were free from their spring and autumn duties of tending crops or going to school. Peter had become the leader of a merry band of youngsters, aged six to fourteen, who followed the Wild Boy wherever he went and seemed to understand his unintelligible noises. If they did not understand, then they pretended to. The life of a princess has many advantages, but I envied those children for their time with Peter and for what seemed to me to be a simple, carefree existence.

All through the winter months, Rose kept up the practice of sitting by the fire with Peter and a book telling him stories. The doctor stopped to listen one afternoon out of curiosity, and heard her say, “…then the Mermaid said to the Pirate, ‘I would rather perish with the boy than go with you.’ And the Pirate said, ‘So be it,’ and sealed them both up inside the treasure chest. Then the pirate’s crew got together to lift the chest up, and with a nod from their captain, they cast the chest overboard into the sea. The chest was so heavy, it sank in the water in spite of the air inside, and in seconds it was gone from view, disappearing into the deep blue depths. If the boy and the mermaid were unable to free themselves, they would surely perish.” Peter’s eyes were wide with interest. “But- I can’t tell you what happened- you’ll have to find out next time.” She stopped and closed the book. Peter shook his head and put his hand on the book. She laughed and said, “You want to hear more now, do you?

Hand over the fairy," Peter Pan demanded. The captain couldn't tell if Peter was deliberately taunting him, but he still cringed at the word hand. "Do you know what I wish I could do more than anything else in the world, Peter?" Captain Hook said. "Clap?" Peter Pan guessed. "What?" the captain asked. "No!" "Do a handstand?" "NO!" "Play the piano?" "STOP IT! STOP MAKING APPENDAGE JOKES!" "Why? Is it getting out of hand?" "YOU ARE SO IMMATURE!" "Captain, now is not the time to point the finger." Peter Pan was beside himself with laughter. Captain Hook growled angrily and got back to his point.

Their meal was illuminated by torches, which Gwen found were utterly without fire. What the children called torches were really just small platforms on tall, wooden poles. The reason they radiated light was because fairies had flown up to them to waltz and glow on the tiny dance floors.

“So, you’re basically playing the part of Wendy.” Jeb pauses and glances at me. “Windy?” “Wendy, from Peter Pan. You’re stitching Dad’s shadow into place.” Peter Pan was his favorite fairy tale as a child. His mom read it to him every night. There’s the hint of a shy, boyish grin on his face—the one he used to give me when I’d catch him off guard.

fairies never say "We feel happy": what they say is, "We feel dancey." Well,

The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy language.

You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.

Then tell her,' Wendy begged, 'to put out her light.' 'She can't put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can't do. It just goes out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the stars.' 'Then

I found a room, both quiet and slow, a room where the walls are thick. Where pixie dust is kept in jars, and paper rockets soar to Mars, and battles leave no lasting scars as clocks forget to tick. I guard this room, both small and bare, this room in which stories live. Where Peter Pan and Alice play, and Sinbad sails at dawn of day, and wolves cry 'boy' to get their way when ogres won’t forgive. With you I’ll share my hiding place, this room under cloak and spell. We’ll snuggle up inside a nook, and read a venturous story book, that makes us question in a look what nonsense fairies tell. In fictive plots and fabled ends, Our happy-e’er-afters dwell!

In the immortal children's Christmas pantomime Peter Pan, there comes a climactic moment when the little angel Tinkerbell seems to be dying. The glowing light that represents her on the stage begins to dim, and there is only one possible way to save the dire situation. An actor steps up to the front of the house and asks all the children, "Do you believe in fairies?" If they keep confidently answering "YES!" then the tiny light will start to brighten again. Who can object to this ? One wants not to spoil children's belief in magic—there will be plenty of time later for disillusionment—and nobody is waiting at the exit asking them hoarsely to contribute their piggy banks to the Tinkerbell Salvation Church.

And so," he went on good-naturedly, "there ought to be one fairy for every boy and girl." "Ought to be? Isn't there?" "No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don't believe in fairies, and every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,' there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.

Tinker Bell hesitantly leaned over. She kissed him ever so gently on the lower lip. A fairy kiss, invisible and seemingly ephemeral, whose effects and existence would last as long as pixie dust. Perhaps his breathing eased. Perhaps he looked a trifle more peaceful, despite his eyes rolling beneath their lids. She wondered what it meant, the touch of human lips on her own- if it left any trace on her.

The one who answered his questions certainly had pointed ears, though the same observer might be hard pressed to make out any ears- or actual answers at all. The boy spoke to what appeared to be little more than a golden light that bobbled and sparkled and tinkled like bells. In fact, the whole scene resembled a mesmerist quizzing a pendulum held from a long golden chain, glittering in the sunlight, whose vague swings returned meanings known only to the occultist himself. But upon looking more closely, one would see that inside the golden bauble was a tiny woman with very pointed ears, a serious face, a green dress, and sparkling wings. Her body was like a series of energetic globes, from her golden hair in its messy bun to her hips to the round silver bells that decorated her shoes. Throughout the conversation every part of her was as animated as her friend's face.

In his absence things are usually quiet on the island. The fairies take an hour longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their young, the redskins feed heavily for six days and nights, and when pirates and lost boys meet they merely bite their thumbs at each other. But with the coming of Peter, who hates lethargy, they are all under way again: if you put your ear to the ground now, you would hear the whole island seething with life. On

People... are talking... about me? As a spinster? With-cats?" Wendy's mind was too overcome with this new information to even take offense at it. She was sixteen, for heaven's sake! She had time. She had just moved out of the nursery not that long ago... And to think of a husband? Now? There were so many other things to think about. Balloons and submarines. Airships and pirates. Deepest Africa and farthest Australia. Peter Pan and fairies and mermaids and centaurs...

She allowed the sweet thrill of hearing Mack Logan’s voice, even in the background, run through her before she dismissed it as another childhood fantasy. When they’d been best friends as children, she’d had an unbounded belief in mermaids and fairies, in fairytales and nature’s mysteries. She’d believed she could fly with Peter Pan, breathe underwater, walk without touching the ground. And she believed Mack Logan loved her. Reality had a way of ruining a girl’s dreams.

The meal was full of jovial conversation and laughter. Everyone was as happy as if Peter was right there amongst them, for you see, it was true what the King and the doctor had observed- Peter had a way of infecting people with happiness that lingered even in his absence. The effect was stronger for some people than it was for others, but all of the company gathered here had come to love and trust Peter, and therefore his influence on them was very strong- strong enough, perhaps, to last them to the end of their days.

I know the call, sister. I am fairy. Really? I haven't seen you at any of the midseason fetes, or the blossom gatherings, or the acorn hunts, or... I don't like crowds. You don't seem to like much of what it means to be fairy. More and more was revealed about Wendy's temperamental little friend! Fairies were apparently gregarious- social creatures, like people. Or horses. Not the lonely solitary haunters of hills and isolated groves Wendy had imagined, who came together for the rare dance around a ring of mushrooms. But Tinker Bell obviously shunned the company of others like herself, preferring the company of a few giant humans like Peter Pan.

- Se vuoi, ti do un bacio. - Peter le rispose: - Grazie - e non avendo idea di ciò che fosse un bacio, le tese una mano attendendo che vi deponesse qualche cosa. Per Maimie, questo fu un terribile colpo, ma sentì che non poteva spiegargli meglio la cosa, senza maggiormente addolorarlo, perciò con squisita delicatezza gli infilò in un ditino un ditale d'argento che, frugando, si era trovata in tasca, e gli disse: - Ecco, caro! - proprio come se gli avesse dato un bacio. E Peter non seppe mai la differenza tra un bacio e un ditale. […] - Se desideri darmi un bacio, lo puoi fare - disse Maimie. Peter allora prese, con molta riluttanza, a sfilarsi il ditale dal dito; pensava che Maimie lo rivolesse e per questo stava diventando rapidamente triste e malinconico. - Non volevo dire un bacio - si corresse Maimie - ma un ditale. - Cos'è un ditale? - chiese Peter preoccupato. - Questo è un ditale - rispose Maimie e lo baciò. Così Peter le diede tanti, tanti ditali con dolcezza e serietà. E lo fece proprio bene, se considerate che era la prima volta che lo faceva. Si dice davvero a ragione che non si sa mai ciò di cui si è capaci finché non ci si è provati a farlo.

Now I myself, I cheerfully admit, feel that enormity in Kensington Gardens as something quite natural. I feel it so because I have been brought up, so to speak, under its shadow; and stared at the graven images of Raphael and Shakespeare almost before I knew their names; and long before I saw anything funny in their figures being carved, on a smaller scale, under the feet of Prince Albert. I even took a certain childish pleasure in the gilding of the canopy and spire, as if in the golden palace of what was, to Peter Pan and all children, something of a fairy garden. So do the Christians of Jerusalem take pleasure, and possibly a childish pleasure, in the gilding of a better palace, besides a nobler garden, ornamented with a somewhat worthier aim. But the point is that the people of Kensington, whatever they might think about the Holy Sepulchre, do not think anything at all about the Albert Memorial. They are quite unconscious of how strange a thing it is; and that simply because they are used to it. The religious groups in Jerusalem are also accustomed to their coloured background; and they are surely none the worse if they still feel rather more of the meaning of the colours. It may be said that they retain their childish illusion about their Albert Memorial. I confess I cannot manage to regard Palestine as a place where a special curse was laid on those who can become like little children. And I never could understand why such critics who agree that the kingdom of heaven is for children, should forbid it to be the only sort of kingdom that children would really like; a kingdom with real crowns of gold or even of tinsel. But that is another question, which I shall discuss in another place; the point is for the moment that such people would be quite as much surprised at the place of tinsel in our lives as we are at its place in theirs. If we are critical of the petty things they do to glorify great things, they would find quite as much to criticise (as in Kensington Gardens) in the great things we do to glorify petty things. And if we wonder at the way in which they seem to gild the lily, they would wonder quite as much at the way we gild the weed.

Half the kids in the hotel were dressed up, dozens of fairies and Peter Pans, the occasional pirate. You couldn’t walk along a hotel corridor without bumping into an adult reenactor pretending to be Goofy or Mary Poppins. It was surreal and vaguely alarming. The kid accepted it as normal.

If we use child in a good sense (it has also legitimately a bad one) we must not allow that to push us into the sentimentality of only using adult or grown-up in a bad sense (it has also legitimately a good one). The process of growing older is not necessarily allied to growing wickeder, though the two do often happen together. Children are meant to grow up, and not to become Peter Pans. Not to lose innocence and wonder but to proceed on the appointed journey: that journey upon which it is certainly not better to travel hopefully than to arrive, though we must travel hopefully if we are to arrive. But it is one of the lessons of fairy-stories (if we can speak of the lessons of things that do not lecture) that on callow, lumpish, and selfish youth peril, sorrow, and the shadow of death can bestow dignity, and even sometimes wisdom. (On Fairy Stories)

Tinker Bell is dead. Killed by me. There is no way she’s standing on my balcony, speaking my name. Hello, Peter Pan. An eternity passes in an instant. Tinker Bell’s wings flutter behind her. She is the same age she was when I killed her, immortal and ageless, more beautiful than any corpse has a right to be. She’s wearing the same dress she wore that night, when I spoke the unspeakable words to her. The dress made to look like skeleton leaves, cut square across her chest, jagged at the knees. Fairy dust swirls around her and coats the balcony’s railing, making it glitter in the graying light.

It wasn't really a conduit to the past. It wasn't magic. There was no such thing as magic. (I don't believe in fairies. Sorry, Peter Pan.) But Georgie wasn't going to risk it. She wasn't a Time Lord, she didn't want a time-turner.

Cassie spoke up, "He is like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys." ... Tameron said "No one is lost here. And we have just as many girls, well, maybe not as many as we have boys, but a fair amount. Who is this Peter Pan you speak of? A hero?" he asked Cassie. Alicia spoke up then ... "He led a group of boys in a world of adventure on an island paradise." Tameron looked at Cassie to see if she agreed. She smiled and nodded. "This Peter Pan was real?" he asked. "No, he was a fairy... uhm, tale," Cassie said. Tameron smiled. "I like the idea. I'll have to read it sometime...

Remember the part in Peter Pan where we clap to prove that we believe in fairies, and we save Tinker Bell? That’s our monetary system! It’s the Tinker Bell System!

When the first baby laughed for the first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping about. That was the beginning of fairies.

His eyes shown as brightly as if they were fairies themselves, and his face held a delicate balance of youth and knowledge for he had an abundance of both. His tongue sat in the corner of his mouth, gripped between his teeth as he focused on a fairy that was sprinting and tumbling across his fingertips.

She liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it. Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said. Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well again if children believed in fairies. J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan