Guardians Of Ga Hoole Quotes

I am ashamed of anyone who has eyes and still can't see.

Legends were not only for the desperate. Legends were for the brave. (Soren)

They did not hear Grimble, as he lay dying, chant in the true voice of the Boreal Owl, in tones like chimes in the night, an ancient owl prayer, “I have redeemed myself by giving belief to the wings of the young. Blessed are those who believe, for indeed they shall fly."

A legend, Kludd, is a story that you begin to feel in your gizzard and then over time it becomes true in your heart. And perhaps makes you become a better owl.

Flutter like a hummingbird, Dive like an eagle, Ain't no bird that's my equal. - Twilight

Blood hardly defines one's character. We are made by our actions, not our blood. - Soren

I am ashamed of anyone who has eyes and still cannot see. (Mrs. Plithiver)

Otulissa swelled up to twice her normal size. 'Well, SPRINK ON YOUR SPRONK!

One creature's truth is another's lie. (Scroom of Strix Struma)

Very possible! Possible, indeed. Maybe even probable, which, as you know if you study your arithmetic,can happen more often than possible. In other words, probable is more possible than possible. - Bubo

Words, as you well know, can be powerful. - Digger

What are emotions exactly?' Lutta asked. 'Silly feelings that get in the way of actions.

Everything here at St. Aggie's is upside down and inside out. It's our job not to get moon blinked and to stand right side up in an upside down world. If we don't do that we'll never be able to escape. We'll never be able to think. And thinking is the only way we'll be able to plan an escape." -Gylfie

And if you can't imagine, nothing will ever happen.

You ugly rat-faced birds. You call yourself a bird? You call yourself an owl? You ain't no decent kind of fowl! They call you Jatt? They call you Jutt? I'm gonna toss you in a rut! Then I'm gonna punch you in the gut! Then your gonna wind up on your butt! Think you're all gizzard! I seen better lizards. One-Two-Three-Four, You're goin' down, won't ask for more. Five-Six-Seven-Eight, You ain't better than fish bait... Nine-Ten-Eleven-Twelve, I'm gonna send you straight to hell. -Twilight

Hush little owl, You're with Twi. I got the moves to get you by. Big bad crows. St. Aggie's scamps Ain't got nothin to show the champ. I'll pop a spiral With a twist, Do a three-sixty And scatter mist----

To find one's special quality One must lead a life of deep humility. To serve in this way Never question but obey Is the blessing of St Aggie's charity. - The owls of St. Aegolius

Far away if first black, But it shall be back Over field Over flower In the twilight hour. We are home in our tree. We are owls, we are free. As we go, this we know Glaux is nigh.

Night is done, gone the moon, gone the stars From the skies. Fades the black of night Comes the morn with rosy light. Fold your wings, go to sleep, Rest your gizzards, Safe you'll be for the day. Glaux is nigh. Far away is first black, But it shall seep back Over field Over flower In the twilight hour. We are home in our tree. We are owls, we are free. As we go, this we know Glaux is nigh.

He didn't know what he wanted. He only knew what he didn't want.

What is a fleecy as a cloud, As majestic and shimmering as the breaking dawn, As gorgeous as the sun the sun is strong? Why, it's ME! Twilight, the Great Gray, Tiger of the sky --- Light of the Night, Most beautiful, An avian delight. I beam --- I gleam --- I'm a livin' flying dream. Watch me roll off this cloud and pop on back. This is flying. I ain't no hack.

We are the owls of the weather chaw. We take it blistering, We take it all. Roiling boiling gusts, We're the owls with the guts. For blizzards our gizzards Dr tremble with joy. An ice storm, a gale, how we love blinding hail. We fly forward and backward, Upside down and flat. Do we flinch? Do we wail? Do we skitter or scutter? No, we yarp one more pellet And fly straight for the gutter! Do we screech? Do we scream? Do we gurgle? Take pause? Not on your life! For we are the best Of the best of the chaws!

What gives a wriggle And makes you giggle When you eat'em? Whose weensy little feet Make my heart really beat? Why, it's those little creepy crawlies That make me feel so jolly. For the darling centipede My favorite buggy feed I always want some more. That's the insect I adore More than beetles, more than crickets, Which at times gives me the hiccups. I crave only to feed On a juicy centipede And I shall be happy forevermore." -Soren

gardians rule

Glad to eat ya', I mean meet ya'" - Digger

I don't think real friends would be jealous. -Primrose

T is not faces, not color, not appearnces that matter. - Soren

We are only as noble as our actions prove us to be.

Did Soren agree to be part of a system to protect Skench and Spoorn and the others?" Barren, the other Snowy monarch, asked in her soft voice. He did indeed, madam," Ezylryb replied. "Soren is a much-misunderstood owl these days. Believe me, Soren will do whatever is required in this invasion.

We're going to bash them birds, Them rat-feathered birds. Them bad-butt owls ain't never heard 'Bout Gylfie, Soren, Dig, and Twilight Just let them get to feel my bite Their li'l ole gizzards gonna turn to pus And our feathers hardly mussed. Oh, me. Oh, my. They gonna cry. One look at Twilight, They know they're gonna die. I see fear in their eyes And that ain't all. They know that Twilight's got the gall. Gizzard with gall that makes him great And every bad owl gonna turn to bait.

Hail to St. Aegolius Our Alma Mater. Hail, our song we raise in praise of thee Long in the memory of every loyal owl Thy splendid banner emblazoned be. Now to thy golden talons Homage we're bringing. Guiding symbol of our hopes and fears Hark to the cries of eternal praises ringing Long may we triumph in the coming years. - The Owls of St. Aegolius

So in that dark and tangled night, the chaw of chaws rose to flight, with talons bloodied, feathers singed. A battle won - a war begins!

Give me a hot coal glowing bright red, Give me an ember sizzling with heat, These are the jewels made from my beak. We fly between the flames and never get singed We plunge through the smoke and never cringe. The secrets of fire, its strange winds, its rages, We know it all as it rampages Through forests, through canyons, Up hillsides and down. We track it. We'll find it. Take coals by the pound. We'll yarp in the heart of the hottest flame Then bring back its coals an make them tame. For we are the colliers brave and beyond all We are the owls of the colliering chaw!

Come to us and quackle and quank. Relieve us of our stirrings With your fangs so sharp and bright Take this blood that's always purring. Through our hollow bones it flows To each feather and downy fluff. Quell the terrible, horrid urge that so often prinkles us, Still our dreams, make slow our thoughts Let tranquillity flood our veins. Come to us and drink your fill So we might end our pains. - The Owls at St. Aegolius calling to the bats

I dedicate this book to all of you Guardians of Ga'hoole readers who have become like citizens in my imaginary world. Imagination is, in a sense, a two-way street. Through your enthusiasm you have made this world much more real for me. I had originally intended to write only six books. This book, the fifteenth, is the last. It is the last not because your fervor has waned but because this is the logical place for the story of Soren and the band to conclude.

For Twilight, it was like the echo of a song- a song from long ago. He could almost remember some of the words, but had no clue as to where they had come from. There had been a wonderful voice singing it, singing this song just for him. A voice like silk? Satin? Like liquid moonlight, it flowed, it curled around him and suffused him with a glowing warmth.

Set your wings upon the sea wind Set your eyes upon the stream Feel the billow of the updraft And believe in your dream Know the mercy of these waters Know the safety of the sky Hear the voices in the distance And believe - they will not lie.

Every pellet has a story all its own. Every pellet has a story all its own. With its fur and teeth and bones And one or two stones, Every pellet has a story all its own. We shall dissect every pellet with glee. Perhaps we'll find a rodents knee. And never shall we tire In the sacred task that we conspire, No do our work less perfectly And those bright flecks at the core, Which makes our hearts soar, Shall forever remain the deepest mystery. - The owlets in the Pelletorium at St. Aegolius

Death bears with it a stain that seeps into the hollow and fills the mind.

Young’uns!” Mrs. P. interrupted. “No bad language, not at the table, please. And need I remind you, I am the table!

If that animal claims not to be frightened, then that animal is a liar. The real hero is the animal who fights even though scared. That is courage. There can be no courage without fear.

The path is a ribbon of moonlight across a dusky sea. The wind sings a song that beckons us To that great and mighty tree. We are the Greenowls of Ambala, clad in raiments of moss, Sprigged with lichens and grasses Then gilded with silvery frost. Fair and square we play- for a sporting lot we are. We ride the boisterous Balefire gusts And we reach for every star.

Legends were not only for the desperate. Legends were for the brave.

I have always believed that there is more goodness than evil in the world.

— Кролик, я даже не знаю, как тебя зовут. У тебя есть имя? — Зови меня просто Кролик, — ответил кролик.

In the daytime, there was often a lovely patch of blue, and sometimes toward evening, before twilight, the clouds turned bright orange or pink.

A legend, Kludd, is a story that you begin to feel in your gizzard and then over time it becomes true in your heart. And perhaps makes you become a better owl.

Anything worth doing has risks.” Hortense paused. “And believe me, this is worth doing.

Soren had been at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree for almost a month,

My own brother. My very own brother is Metal Beak and he wants to kill me.

Then Otulissa swelled up to twice her normal size. “Well, SPRINK ON YOUR SPRONK!

At the edge of the avalanche At the glacier’s icy rim Grows the flower of the snowfields Trembling in the wintry wind. It dares to live in edges Where naught else would ever grow. So fragile, so unlikely An owl slices through this blow. She dares the katabats Her gizzard madly quivers, But for her dearest of friends She vows she shall deliver. Like the lily of the avalanche The glacier’s icy rose Like a flower of the wind The bright fierceness in her glows. The bravest are the small The weakest are the strong The most fearful find the courage To battle what is wrong.

—Night is Done— Night is done, gone the moon, gone the stars From the skies. Fades the black of the night Comes the morn with rosy light. Fold your wings, go to sleep, Rest your gizzards, Safe you’ll be for the day. Glaux is nigh. Far away is First Black, But it shall seep back Over field Over flower In twilight hour. We are home in our tree. We are owls, we are free. As we go, this we know Glaux is nigh.

Indeed, nobility is not always found in the flash of battle claws or flying through the embered wakes of firestorms, or even in making strong the weak, mending the broken, vanquishing the proud, or making powerless those who abuse the frail.” Soren’s gizzard grew quiet as Boron spoke. “It is also found in the resolute heart, the gizzard that can withstand the temptations of false dreams, the mind that has the imagination to comprehend another’s pain,

All this stuff about serving and stations. We are all the same now. There are no stations, no nests, no hollows. We’re all orphans. We’ve all seen horrible things. The world is different now. And part of that difference is that there is no difference between any of us.

For when the world one knew began to crumble away bit by bit, when not only your memories but the memories that others might have of you grew dim with time and distance, when, indeed, you began to fade into a nothingness in the minds of the owls that you loved best, well, perhaps that was when legends could become real.

This is what’s so terrible about grief: You relive the final moments of your beloved’s life for years and years and years. It’s like flying with one wing. You never become used to it. The shock might wear off, the images grow a little dimmer. But the panic creeps back while you sleep in the brightest part of the day. My dreams are drenched now with the pink foam of the cresting waves, waves pink with the blood of my Lil. The same pink as the ice flowers she had worn on our wingfast night, the pink of the garland she had draped over her head. I have a deep and abiding hatred of morning light now, of high noon, of anything that reminds me of the day my mate died.

The time has come, The claws are passed. An old owl rests, A die’s been cast. It is a war for heart, Gizzard and mind. The weapons they wield, More deadly than mine. A blade draws blood, a fire burns. But with the flecks, a mind unlearns. A soul unhinges, And then a gizzard quakes and cringes. Senses dull, Reason scatters. The heart grows numb, An owl shatters. But these six owls are strong and bold, And their story has not yet been told.

— Так повернитесь же скорее и расскажите мне все о себе! — Простите, — тихонько закурлыкал Корин, стараясь не рассмеяться. — Но я, кажется, немного застрял. — Вы не сочтете меня излишне фамильярной, если я слегка потяну вас за хвост? — Нет-нет, ни в коем случае! Буду вам очень признателен. — Я попытаюсь сделать это очень осторожно, чтобы не потянуть ваши хвостовые перья. — Не беспокойтесь, пожалуйста. Часть перьев все равно вот-вот выпадет при линьке. — Вы исключительно вежливы и любезны, друг мой.

I am a Guardian of Ga’Hoole. From this night on I dedicate my life to the protection of owlkind. I shall not swerve in my duty. I shall support my brother and sister Guardians in times of battle and in times of peace. I am the eyes in the night, the silence within the wind. I am the talons through the fire, the shield that guards the innocent. I shall seek to wear no crown, nor win any glory. And all these things I do swear upon my honor as a Guardian of Ga’Hoole until my days on this earth cease to be. This be my vow. This be my life. By Glaux, I do swear.

For those who believe.

Barn Owls were known for their extremely sensitive hearing. They could contract and expand the muscles of their facial disks to funnel the sound source to their unevenly placed earholes.

Mist

All for owls and owls for all!

From what I was able to piece together, Lysa was days from branching when it happened. It was early evening. She was sleeping peacefully in her nest. Ma was out hunting. Pa was on the front lines, as he had been for many nights. And Lyze had just begun branching. He did this on his own, Pa was not there to help him. Too often fathers, and sometimes mothers, were not around to raise their chicks; the war took them away from their homes. Lyze had hopped through the branches of the tall, slender pine that had been our home. He was almost fully fledged, and so close to flying. From branch to branch he went, getting farther and farther from our hollow. He heard a soft chirp, and looked down to see little Lysa, having woken from her nap, at the edge of our hollow. She looked up at her big brother, longing to join him in his fun. Before Lyze could react, Lysa tumbled down to the ground. Lyze called out in the staccato bark of alarm that we Whiskered Screech Owls use in times of danger. But it was useless. He watched as a coyote snatched his downy little sister in his jaws, and disappeared into the eventide.

I am an owl of low birth in the eyes of the world because I have had no proper upbringing." All the bluster was gone from Twilight's voice; even his feathers seemed to sag a bit and he appeared slightly smaller. "I have had no First Ceremonies, no First Insect, no First Fur-on-Meat ceremony. There is much I don't know." Soren was stunned. Twilight never admitted to not knowing anything. "But there is much I do know. I know light and shadow and everything in between. I know the life pulse in the throat of a bobcat and where to slash to break the blood pump that is the cat's heart. I know mountains and deserts and the creatures who fly and those who don't, but slither or crawl or leap. I know of all sorts of claws, as well as fangs and poisons that lock the talons and freeze the wings. I know the false horizon that comes in the heat of the summer when the air is thick with dew and confuses old owls so that they go yeep and fall. And I know all this, not because I was reared in a hollow lined with the down of my mother's breast, but because I was not. I was alone within minutes of my hatching. I can be alone. It is a special talent. And I can be alone again.

Well, first murder, then shopping.

Soren had been given the number 82-85. He couldn’t remember what his previous number had

system.

congregations of owls seemed to be below, along with a hollow that was called a kitchen, from

gizzard

Zan and I have always believed that there is more goodness than evil in the world. But you know, you still got to work at it.

I have redeemed myself by giving belief to the wings of the young. Blessed are those who believe, for indeed they shall fly.

Strong enough for any battlefield, any war, but tempered with compassion and wisdom so that he knows the richness of restraint, the fruitfulness of peace, and the grace of mercy.

I swore an oath of peace, as well. But you know, now I think it is time to break it. I’ll do anything to rescue my beloved master.

There is never any call for envy or stinginess in owls, Soren. We have the sky, we have the great forests and the trees. We are the most beautiful fliers on earth. Why would we envy any other bird or animal?

You who were born into evil found good. You who were raised in tyranny sought equality. You who were schooled in brutality learned only mercy. You who were taught the dishonorable discovered honor. You who were nurtured on the poison of the most ignoble owls in the world are most noble. You are my nephew and my king.

Damn the MacHeaths for their jealousies, their mutilation of young pups, and their alliances with devil owls.

and powerless and weak, an outcast. Glaux bless you for your belief in legends.

And all the owls of the great tree that night believed, as well. They believed that there were many kinds of truths, those of science that could be proven through the brain, and those of legends that could come true in the hearts and gizzards of all owls if they only believed.

completely alone. He could not imagine being more completely alone as he gazed up at the tree that seemed to vanish into the clouds. He sighed and muttered, “So alone, so alone.” And yet, deep inside him

Could he climb, using his talons and beak?

Mum! Da!” he cried out in his half sleep.

Didn’t sleep a wink, huh?” “‘Fraid not, Auntie,” Soren had replied. “Now, you hear me. Why don’t you

And yet he could not stop thinking of them. He did not want to stop thinking of them. He would never stop thinking of them.

Dream on, you addle-brained idiot bird.

Gylf, you can practice forever and still never fly if you do not really believe you can.

rare contentment to complete a set. I feel this sense of rare contentment every morning at this hour.” Rare? Soren thought. That was a word he knew, for his parents had told them that the family of Barn Owls to which they belonged, the Tyto Alba, had become rare, which meant there were not many of them. So how could this owlet’s contentment be rare if it happened every morning at a particular hour? “I, too, feel perfect.” Another owlet now spoke, turning toward Gylfie this time. It was nearly the same speech. At regular intervals now, the two owls turned alternately to Soren and Gylfie and gave short little reports on their states of contentment. On occasion, these reports became interspersed with comments. “25-2, for an owlet of your exceedingly tiny stature you have a fine posture as you peck.” “Thank you,” Gylfie replied, and dipped her head in what she thought was a docile manner. “You are most welcome, 25-2.” Then the owlet closest to Soren began, “12-1, your beak work is quite advanced. You work with industry and delicacy.” “Thank you,” said Soren. And then for some reason he added, “Thank you very much.” “You’re welcome. But you need not be excessively polite. It wastes energy. Politeness is its own reward—just like flecks.

GA’HOOLE

Moon Scalding

although boldness of action is always called for, it must be tempered by wisdom and restraint, and too often it is not.

There was nothing particularly glorious or heroic about war, Soren realized. It was really nothing more than a grubby, vile task to vanquish a foul tyranny led by his own brother.

In times of trouble, however, there can come a certain closeness, a kind of coziness of spirit.

Cody and I, we escaped MacHeath and that was a miracle, and our time together seems like another sort of miracle. But it is over.

Where there are legends, there can be hope. Where there are legends, there can be dreams of knightly owls, from a kingdom called Ga’Hoole, who will rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds. Owls who speak no words but true ones. Owls whose only purpose is to right all wrongs, to make strong the weak, mend the broken, vanquish the proud, and make powerless those who abuse the frail. With hearts sublime, they

Hope is never a foolish thing—although others will tell you it is.