Folklore Inspiring Quotes

Touch magic. Pass it on.

No, I do not weep at the world. I'm too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other or more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous." (Great Thought, February 19, 1938)

Fiction is written with reality and reality is written with fiction. We can write fiction because there is reality and we can write reality because there is fiction; everything we consider today to be myth and legend, our ancestors believed to be history and everything in our history includes myths and legends. Before the splendid modern-day mind was formed our cultures and civilizations were conceived in the wombs of, and born of, what we identify today as "fiction, unreality, myth, legend, fantasy, folklore, imaginations, fabrications and tall tales." And in our suddenly realized glory of all our modern-day "advancements" we somehow fail to ask ourselves the question "Who designated myths and legends as unreality? " But I ask myself this question because who decided that he was spectacular enough to stand up and say to our ancestors "You were all stupid and disillusioned and imagining things" and then why did we all decide to believe this person? There are many realities not just one. There is a truth that goes far beyond what we are told today to believe in. And we find that truth when we are brave enough to break away from what keeps everybody else feeling comfortable. Your reality is what you believe in. And nobody should be able to tell you to believe otherwise.

Behind her gentle character, the strength of armor was found.

If family folklore was to be trusted, I had never learned to shut up or do as I was told.

Blind ambition drives the foolish, while the soul directs the wise.

Folklores are inspired by truth but coloured with fantasy.

Good and evil exist in all of us. a moment’s temptation takes us on a wrong path. On that path may lurk foul fiends, inhuman, yet feeding, needing all our weaknesses: vanity, indolence and envy, Easy fruits for evil appetites, our flesh, a tasty afterthought, our bones flung asunder.

The Anne Rice books are a lot about infection. I read "Interview With the Vampire" a million times when I was in seventh and eighth grade. Also, [writing Gavriel's backstory] definitely came from those books: I sat down and reread them all and thought a lot about… the way in which vampirism is pushing away from humanity in interesting ways, and creating something new from humanity. I imprinted on those books pretty hard. Tanith Lee's "Sabella or the Blood Stone" was a big inspiration. I absolutely loved her books; when I was a kid, I wrote many bad Tanith Lee pastiches. Susie McKee Charnas' "The Vampire Tapestry." Poppy Z. Brite's "Lost Souls." Nancy Collins' "Sunglasses After Dark," which sounds like the most '80s title ever. It's about a vampire named Sonja Blue, and she goes around killing vampires. She's the only vampire who's half-alive. It's a really fun, blood-filled romp. It's very "Blade" before "Blade"--with a lady.

Crook your finger; they’ll come closer. Pull the covers tighter to your chin; in beside you they’ll creep.

Listen, listen with your eyes, and your lips. Listen with your skin, and your blood. Can you hear us, at the edges?

Thus Arthur achieved the adventure of the sword that day and entered into his birthright of royalty. Wherefore, may God grant His Grace unto you all that ye too may likewise succeed in your undertakings. For any man may be a king in that life in which he is placed if so he may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance. Wherefore when your time of assay cometh, I do hope it may be with you as it was with Arthur that day, and that ye too may achieve success with entire satisfaction unto yourself and to your great glory and perfect happiness.

His point about the folklore of a country springing up from the deep history of a nation–this is something very important for all of us Americans to think about, especially since so many of our cultural elites seem to be more interested in putting down or even destroying our common culture (such as it is) rather than returning to it as a well of inspiration. Something to think about.

[T]he incomparable Diana Wynne Jones, one of the finest mythic fiction writers of our age, who left us too early (due to cancer) two days ago. I'm so grateful to her for the extraordinary books she has left behind, which have inspired a whole generation of younger writers. She was writing brilliant YA fantasy before the genre (as we know it now) even existed; she was writing enchanting "wizard school" books long before Harry Potter was a gleam in Rowling's eye; and her knowledge of how to weave mythic/folkloric themes into contemporary fiction was second to no one's. Diana will be terribly missed, but through her magical stories, her light will stay on.

Here, at the edges, Whispering to you, And we’re not alone; not alone Here, in the dark. We are behind the door, in the corners, In the room where you’ve just extinguished the light. We flicker in the shadow you cast on the wall. We are the prickle on the back of your neck. Curled, in words unspoken, We are the shiver on your uneasy flesh, The creep of the unknown on your skin. Can you feel us? Here, at the edges. From the Foreword of Cautionary Tales - by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

I implore you, whoever you may be, to look around you. Open your eyes to every detail of the present as it lives, as it breathes. Do not be distracted by a fleeting wind and miss the coming of the dawn, for the events of today very soon become tomorrow's folklore.

Let us come to the point now. It would be nice to hold on to the common belief that the UFOs are craft from a superior space-civilization, because this is a hypothesis science fiction has made widely acceptable, and because we are not altogether unprepared, scientifically and even, perhaps, militarily, to deal with such visitors. Unfortunately, however, the theory that flying saucers are material objects from outer space manned by a race originating on some other planet is not a complete answer. However strong the current belief in saucers from space, it cannot be stronger than the Celtic faith in the elves and the fairies, or the medieval belief in lutins, or the fear throughout the Christian lands, in the first centuries of our era, of demons and satyrs and fauns. Certainly, it cannot be stronger than the faith that inspired the writers of the Bible—a faith rooted in daily experiences with angelic visitation.

I will kill you, and I shall do so in such a way, this world will cease its wars. The world shall be unified in its mourning, not because it misses you, but because of the atrocities which I, alone, will have wrought upon your mangled corpse. And even after the cannons fall silent, I will never be caught. New monsters will be born into folklore to explain what I have done to you.

You might just be compelled to hear, that there is folklore about a boy so dear, a legend the fairies readily discern, of a good King’s rule upon his return. A boy, a boy is in front of me, I know not who this human could be. I will just become a part of this tree! Unless he cries a desperate plea, I shall then be allowed to reach out to thee.” Deetkatu, See the Little People…An Enchanting Adventure

Wagner’s Ring Cycle has kept one version of one of the great Norse stories alive in the minds of music lovers. Readers of modern fantasy will find many echoes of the Norse tales as well. Neil Gaiman, Douglas Adams and others have explicitly taken some of the Norse gods and put them into a modern setting with strange, sad and humorous results. Echoes of Norse tales and creatures abound in the speculative fiction of Ursula Le Guin, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Tad Williams and others. Something in these old and puzzling stories still has the power to move and unsettle us, and to inspire new acts of creation.

Inside, there was a bed, and upon the bed there was a woman. More beautiful was she even than the damask rose while her scent, drifting through the open window, was that of the night dew. Her hair was silken as the raven's wing. Quite naked, she lay, so still upon the bed, her eyes closed in reverie. The young man looked first upon her breasts, where her hand rested. And upon each breast, there was a rosebud nipple. Upon each nipple there was a tip most tender. Upon each tip there was a milky drop. Chin lifted, lips parted, she milked her maiden breast. 'What I would give to suckle at that teat,' thought he. from 'Against Faithlessness' in Cautionary Tales

In the life of Moses, in Hebrew folklore, there is a remarkable passage. Moses finds a shepherd in the desert. He spends the day with the shepherd and helps him milk his ewes, and at the end of the day he sees that the shepherd puts the best milk he has in a wooden bowl, which he places on a flat stone some distance away. So Moses asks him what it is for, and the shepherd replies 'This is God's milk.' Moses is puzzled and asks him what he means. The shepherd says 'I always take the best milk I possess, and I bring it as on offering to God.' Moses, who is far more sophisticated than the shepherd with his naive faith, asks, 'And does God drink it?' 'Yes,' replies the shepherd, 'He does.' Then Moses feels compelled to enlighten the poor shepherd and he explains that God, being pure spirit, does not drink milk. Yet the shepherd is sure that He does, and so they have a short argument, which ends with Moses telling the shepherd to hide behind the bushes to find out whether in fact God does come to drink the milk. Moses then goes out to pray in the desert. The shepherd hides, the night comes, and in the moonlight the shepherd sees a little fox that comes trotting from the desert, looks right, looks left and heads straight towards the milk, which he laps up, and disappears into the desert again. The next morning Moses finds the shepherd quite depressed and downcast. 'What's the matter?' he asks. The shepherd says 'You were right, God is pure spirit, and He doesn't want my milk.' Moses is surprised. He says 'You should be happy. You know more about God than you did before.' 'Yes, I do' says the shepherd, 'but the only thing I could do to express my love for Him has been taken away from me.' Moses sees the point. He retires into the desert and prays hard. In the night in a vision, God speaks to him and says 'Moses, you were wrong. It is true that I am pure spirit. Nevertheless I always accepted with gratitude the milk which the shepherd offered me, as the expression of his love, but since, being pure spirit, I do not need the milk, I shared it with this little fox, who is very fond of milk.

Ha!’ cackled the fiend, ‘I expect you’d like revenge on that husband of yours. Murder shouldn’t go unpunished, and no creature enjoys delivering chastisement as much as I. What about giving him a taste of his own medicine? If you’d be so kind as to lend me your body, I’ll set him dancing to my tune.’ The wife’s spectre grimaced and nodded, at which the wicked Likho stripped off the nightgown, then the dead woman’s pliant skin, peeling back the flaccid folds. These it left in a slack heap. It gobbled her flesh and sucked the bones clean. These it hid behind the stove, before inserting itself inside the empty, wrinkled carcass, taking the former position of the corpse. Its fat tongue swiped the last juices from around its lips. When the husband returned home, all was as it had been; there was not a speck of blood to be seen, although the strangest smell of rotten eggs lingered

I had to warn followers repeatedly against these German folklore-ish wandering scholars who never accomplished anything positive or practical, except to cultivate their own overflowing self-conceit. A new movement must guard itself against an influx of people whose only recommendation is their own declaration... It's typical of such people that they rant about ancient Teutonic heroes of the dim and distant ages, stone axes, battle spears, and shields; whereas in reality they themselves are the biggest cowards imaginable. Those very same people who brandish Teutonic tin swords and wear tanned bearskins, with ox horns mounted over their bearded faces... scatter when the first communist cudgel appears. Posterity will have little occasion to write a new epic about their heroic existence...And yet these comedians are extremely proud of themselves. Notwithstanding their proven incompetence, they pretend to know everything better than other people-so much so that they become a real plague to all sincere and honest patriots, to whom not only the heroism of the past is worthy of honor, but who also feel bound to leave examples of their own work for the inspiration of posterity.

inspired by a mythical creature from Japanese folklore. According to legend, certain Japanese red foxes, or kitsune, magically grow an additional tail for every thousand years they have lived.

You might just be compelled to hear, that there is folklore about a boy so dear, a legend the fairies readily discern, of a good King’s rule upon his return. A boy, a boy is in front of me, I know not who this human could be. I will just become a part of this tree! Unless he cries a desperate plea, I shall then be allowed to reach out to thee.” Deetkatu, Meet the Little People…An Enchanting Adventure

A rich man's soup - and all from a few stones. It seemed like magic!

Whiskers: According to an old bit of folklore, cat’s whiskers that you find somewhere can be used in a wish-fulfilling spell. For this to work, burn the whisker and whisper a wish to the smoke. This spell might be accomplished with the whiskers of other animals too, like using a dog’s whiskers to inspire devotion and constancy.

If there is any one person you can't love, then you don't understand love. The bitter cup we have to drink is the dregs of humility; we must see past the outer shells of insecurity to the seed of divinity deep inside each one of us. No one virtue is strong enough to stand on its own. No one vice is simple enough not to lead to all others. No one person can appreciate and support us as much as we need. No one event is enough to tear apart our lives. What does this all mean? We have to give everything or we will have nothing. We cannot take any short cuts. We have to love everyone, or we cannot truly love anyone. No excuse will mean anything to us in the end. People are beautiful, don’t forget that. Don’t let pomp and circumstance, society or folklore fool you with counterfeit beauty. True beauty is usually not something you can see, but something you feel; something that inspires you.

Tales of other sorts ‒ mentioning rats not at all ‒ too find their tellers; as did Nate’s, which of course, sometimes does. You must know that any authentic storytelling would inform its readers that nearly all affairs involve rats at some level and in fact, billions upon billions of these glabrous tailed rodents are right now slinking to and skulking fro ‒ mostly sight unseen, yet visibly influencing more matters in more places on this earth than you've likely imagined to exist. This however, can be likewise observed about countless other matters; as far more intangible forces impact the fates than do those which are easily evident ‒ such as a lone star glinting in the night sky. Each with a past while evolving into its present as it is propelled toward a future that will itself have been inspired by more unstated factors than the totality of stars and rats that its cast of characters will glimpse ‒ whether deigning to count any at all ‒ during their combined life spans. So then, as it’s not so terribly peculiar recurrences reveal, Nate's story is not a linear one. To borrow from folklore once more, this can be seen in the Hero's Journey monomyth as well ‒ whereby its protagonist first resists, then ultimately heeds his call to purpose before returning home transformed. Yet neither can it nor any journey be strictly circular, as also shown by the ouroboros serpent eating its own tail to sustain life ‒ in symbolic demonstration of the universe's cyclic nature and reliance on destruction as an equal partner to creation.

Who is that person in your family who has never abused anyone? Who is that ancestor from whom you can draw your own strength? If you cannot find such a person, then You must become the one.

He wept gray tears in his anguish. All the crossings he traversed across have dissipated into nothing. His psyche is a vessel of brittleness. Throughout his tear-filled eyes, the crow's feather swirls; finding himself lost in a labyrinth, searching for a way to free himself from his scars. Through his misdeeds, he creates more mysteries and mazes. Each piece of bread that he steps upon is covered with thorns, needles; barbed wire, hooks; and every sharp point from his own mistakes, making him feel the consequences of his own indulging indulgence. For him, the only truths he can uncover are those that reside inside of him, and the Demon inside him does not want him to uncover them. By looking into his own mirror, he can see his nemesis before his eyes, the affliction that keeps him from the true meaning of his existence: himself and the subconscious he is governed by. The battle is between him and himself. From within, the rabbit is perishing, he is trying to figure out how to escape. When the Almighty has switched off the illumination of his radiance in the rabbit's life, there’s no paradise when Hades keeps on existing. Revelation misled him into believing he could be redeemed as he is unwell in discomfort, so he must resolve this conflict alone to find his healing. In retrospect, the previous entryway has been sealed. Through this journey of our missteps; restoration can be attained. Rehabilitating ourselves requires dismantling the demons within us to reach redemption. We must frolic like this rabbit lost in our own personal awareness, for we are all enmeshed in the maze of our own consciousness.

Even though she’d put

The dead want what they want. Even an ocean away, there was no denying them.

Faith and mythology, in their profoundest sense, are the twin pillars that uphold the vast cathedral of human consciousness. They are the intertwined roots that nourish our understanding of existence, grounding us in the fertile soil of the unknown. Faith, is the audacious whisper in the heart of man, defying the chasm of uncertainty with its unwavering resonance. It is the audacity to trust in the unseen, to hear the unspoken, and to pursue the uncharted. It is the flame that illuminates the caverns of our deepest fears, casting shadows on our doubts, and lighting the path to our truest selves. Meanwhile, mythology is the grand tapestry we weave to contain the boundless cosmos within the finite landscapes of our minds. It is the narrative thread that stitches together the fabric of our collective consciousness, painting vibrant portraits of gods and monsters, of heroes and villains, of creation and destruction. Mythology gives form to faith, translating the abstract into the tangible, the divine into the comprehensible, the eternal into the temporal. It is the language of symbols, narrating the timeless tales of the human spirit dancing with the cosmos' infinite possibilities. Yet, both faith and mythology are but reflections in the mirror of existence, shimmering illusions that hint at a reality far beyond our comprehension. They are the echoes of the universe whispering its secrets to those daring enough to listen, the gentle lullabies that soothe our existential anxieties, the sweet honey that makes the bitter pill of the unknown more palatable. They are not the ultimate answers to life's mysteries, but the beautiful questions that keep us seeking, exploring, and wondering. They are the compass and the map, guiding us on our endless quest for truth, reminding us that the journey, not the destination, is the essence of existence.

Life is an exquisite novel, and every individual is a chapter within its boundless pages, and within its pages, we craft our unique narratives. We fill its chapters with moments, Emotions, Connections, and Lessons. Our lives are novels filled with drama, adventure, and profound moments that define our essence. And as we conclude our individual books, our stories blend into the anthology of Humanity. We become the legends, the anecdotes, and the folklore, passed down from one generation to the next. For in the end, it's the stories we leave behind that continue to resonate and inspire.

Some differences used in this book are listed here:

nymph or siren from Basque mythology with duck-like feet (Lamiak = plural Lamia) 2 Txorizo: pork sausage 3 Pintxos: small snacks made from a variety of ingredients fastened to a slice of baguette bread with a toothpick 4 Trikitixa: a small accordion with buttons instead of piano-style keys

It would have been a lovely evening had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance of my death

In folklore and popular literature the Artist is traditionally represented as an inspired dreamer-a solitary figure, eccentric, impractical, unselfish, and quixotic.

Nothing is certain in this life; there is little sense in fear of the inevitable. We fight for the things that must change, and pray for matters beyond our control.

Ah, life… ’tis a difficult battle to fight,' said Willoughby, 'but the beautiful moments will always make up for the sorrow.