Pan's Labyrinth Quotes

You must carry on my spirit. It can no longer be carried by a god. It must be taken up by all of you. - Pan

Remake the wild, a little at a time, each in your own corner of the world. You cannot wait for anyone else, even a god, to do that for you.

In consiliis nostris fatum nostrum est, the words read. “In our choices lie our fate.

Wood always remembers it was once a living tree, alive and breathing in both kingdoms, the one above and the one below.

In our choices lie our fate

Mortals don't understand life is not a book you close only after you read the last page. There is no last page in the Book of Life, for the last one is always the first page of another story.

Her mother said fairy tales didn't have anything to do with the world, but Ofelia knew better. They had taught her everything about it.

Libraries don't keep secrets; they reveal them.

Sometimes the objects we hold dear give away who we are even more than the people we love.

Although we may wish for it, true magic is a scary thing.

That was the use of knives for women: to cut food for the men who killed with their knives… who killed those women's husbands, their sons, and their daughters.

Secrets. They add to the darkness of the world but they also make you want to find out more...

Only books talked about all the things adults didn't want you to ask about--Life. Death. Good and Evil. And what else truly mattered in life.

The raindrops were tears too. The whole world was crying.

When she finally wrapped her arms around the girl, the softness stirring in her heart frightened her. It was dangerous to be soft in this world.

You’ll meet her, she’s very pretty, even though sometimes she’s sad for many days at a time. You’ll see, when she smiles, you’ll love her.

Evil seldom takes shape immediately. It is often little more than a whisper at first. A glance. A betrayal. But then it grows and takes root, still invisible, unnoticed. Only fairy tales give evil a proper shape. The big bad wolves, the evil kings, the demons, and devils . . .

Carmen Cardoso believed the most dangerous tale of all: the one of the prince who would save her.

We feel immortal when we are young. Or maybe we just don’t care that much about death yet?

So much cruelty. She’d seen too much of it in this place. Sometimes she wondered whether it covered her heart like mold by now.

The entry wound cried a single tear of blood. Such an insignificant wound, but Death was nesting in it.

The spirit of the wild must pass to all of you now. You must tell each one you meet: if you would find Pan, take up Pan's spirit. Remake the wild, a little at a time, each in your own corner of the world. You cannot wait for anyone else, even a god, to do that for you.

You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze,” I remembered. “The dead, the traitor, and the lost one raise. We raised a lot of the dead. We saved Ethan Nakamura, who turned out to be a traitor. We raised the spirit of Pan, the lost one.” Annabeth shook her head like she wanted me to stop. “You shall rise or fall by the ghost king’s hand,” I pressed on. “That wasn’t Minos, like I’d thought. It was Nico. By choosing to be on our side, he saved us. And the child of Athena’s final stand—that was Daedalus.” “Percy—” “Destroy with a hero’s final breath. That makes sense now. Daedalus died to destroy the Labyrinth. But what was the last—” “And lose a love to worse than death.” Annabeth

But all things lost can be found again, the trees whispered.

Sometimes even the healers are turned into butchers by the darkness of this world.

Her mother said fairy tales didn’t have anything to do with the world, but Ofelia knew better. They had taught her everything about it.

Only her master knew her true name, for in the Magic Kingdom to know a name was to own the being that carried it.

It's always just a few who know where to look and how to listen, that is true. But for the best stories, a few are just enough.

Sometimes we need to see what we feel so we can know about it.

It is hard to have secrets one cannot share, or to believe in a truth that others don't want to see.

Ofelia's mother didn't know it, but she also believed in a fairy tale. Carmen Cardoso believed the most dangerous tale of all: the one of the prince who would save her.

The only piece of home Ofelia had been able to take with her were some of her books. She closed her fingers firmly around the one on her lap, caressing the cover. When she opened the book, the white pages were so bright against the shadows that filled the forest and the words they offered granted shelter and comfort. The letters were like footprints in the snow, a wide white landscape untouched by pain, unharmed by memories too dark to keep, too sweet to let go of.

Evil seldom takes shape immediately. It is often little more than a whisper at first. A glance. A betrayal. But then it grows and takes root, still invisible, unnoticed. Only fairy tales give evil a proper shape.

You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze . . .” We waited. “The dead, the traitor, and the lost one raise.” Grover perked up. “The lost one! That must mean Pan! That’s great!” “With the dead and the traitor,” I added. “Not so great.” “And?” Chiron asked. “What is the rest?” “You shall rise or fall by the ghost king’s hand,” Annabeth said, “the child of Athena’s final stand.

Sometimes the objects we hold dear give away who we are even more than the people we love. The glass of the watch had cracked in the hand of Vidal’s father at the very moment he died, which his son took as proof that things could survive death if only one kept them clean and in perfect order.

The wheels of the pocket watch began to move in their perfect rhythm, confirming once again that there was no end to well-kept order. Immortality was clean and precise. For sure it didn't need a heart. A heartbeat became irregular so easily and at the end it stopped, however carefully one treated it.

Annabeth took a deep breath. “I, ah . . . well, it said, You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze . . .” We waited. “The dead, the traitor, and the lost one raise.” Grover perked up. “The lost one! That must mean Pan! That’s great!” “With the dead and the traitor,” I added. “Not so great.” “And?” Chiron asked. “What is the rest?” “You shall rise or fall by the ghost king’s hand,” Annabeth said, “the child of Athena’s final stand.” Everyone looked around uncomfortably. Annabeth was a daughter of Athena, and a final stand didn’t sound good. “Hey . . . we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Silena said. “Annabeth isn’t the only child of Athena, right?” “But who’s this ghost king?” Beckendorf asked. No one answered. I thought about the Iris-message I’d seen of Nico summoning spirits. I had a bad feeling the prophecy was connected to that. “Are there more lines?” Chiron asked. “The prophecy does not sound complete.” Annabeth hesitated. “I don’t remember exactly.” Chiron raised an eyebrow. Annabeth was known for her memory. She never forgot something she heard. Annabeth shifted on her bench. “Something about . . . Destroy with a hero’s final breath.

Death is a lover to be feared and there was only one way to overcome that fear - by being her executioner.

15 Minutes!" Muttered Vidal, who like all monsters, like death, was always punctual.

In our choices lie our fate.

The worst fears are always underneath us, hidden, shaking the ground we wish to be firm and safe.

In our choices lie our fate

Although we may wish for it, true magic is a scary thing.

Learning about adults’ secrets means learning to understand their world—and how to survive

Pan is dead. There is no one but us.

Or maybe the labyrinth had been built just for this purpose—to have them all play their part in a story written once upon a time and long ago.

What had brought him to this outpost of hell? Ferreira wondered while following Garces into the rain: fate or his own decisions?

Her fairy tales were wrong to give evil the shape of a magnificent wild creature. Both Ernesto Vidal and the Pale Man were human beings who fed on hearts and souls because they had lost their own.

Os mortais não entendem que a vida não é um livro que você fecha só depois de ler a última página. Não existe última página no Livro da Vida, pois a última é sempre a primeira página de outra história.

Yes. The metamorphosis had been successful. Actually, this body might prove to be a new favorite, although she’d taken many shapes in her immortal life. Change was in her nature. It was part of her magic and her favorite game.

And it is said, that the princess Moanna returned to her father’s kingdom, and reigned there with justice and a kind heart for many centuries. That she was loved by her people and left behind small traces of her time on earth visible only to those who know where to look.

When she opened the book, the white pages were so bright against the shadows that filled the forest and the words they offered granted shelter and comfort. The letters were like footprints in the snow, a wide white landscape untouched by pain, unharmed by memories too dark to keep, too sweet to let go of.

Ofelia could still hear Mercedes crying while the blood of the dying girl in her arms was dripping down into the well. She recognized the lullaby Mercedes hummed. And then... Ofelia smiled - oh, so faintly - and then could hear no more. And Mercedes bent over the dead girl and sobbed until the dark hair was wet with her tears.

A long time ago, in the underground realm, where there are no lies or pain, there lived a Princess who dreamed of the human world. She dreamed of blue skies, soft breeze, and sunshine. One day, eluding her keepers, the Princess escaped. Once outside, the brightness blinded her and erased every trace of the past from her memory. She forgot who she was and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness, and pain. Eventually, she died. However, her father, the King, always knew that the Princess' soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time. And he would wait for her, until he drew his last breath, until the world stopped turning...

Where do we go in dreams if not to a universal library? Such a infinite library would be brain-lik, characterised by labyrinthine passages where firing synapses distantly crackle, mythic beings appear and vanish, all is limitless but obscurely connected: Pan’s Labyrinth meets The Master and Margarita.

Por ansiar tanto pela proteção dele, talvez a mãe tenha confundido a fúria sanguinária com autoridade, e a brutalidade com força.

Vidal, que, como todos os monstros, especialmente a Morte, sempre é pontual.

Em nossas escolhas encontra-se o nosso destino.

A mesa com o mapa da floresta já servira de mesa de jantar para o moleiro sua família. Agora servia à morte. À morte e ao medo.

A bondade pode ser tão claramente identificada quanto a crueldade. Irradia luz e calor.

A menina escutou a respiração, o som latejante do seu coração batendo normalmente, como um metrônomo marcando o andamento musical.

A imortalidade era digna e precisa. Certamente não necessitava de um coração.

A lua parecia uma foice faminta no céu quando eles saíram do moinho.

Deixe a raiva seguir seu curso ou ela pode consumir você.

Ambient sound, dialogue and aural motifs all contributes to the diegetic sonic palette of a film

All the words of love would turn into weapons against the ones they were supposed to comfort.

No, vanity - that was his weakness: the urge to constantly prove to himself and to others that nothing and no one could withstand him and that his heart didn't know either fear nor pity. Liar. He was afraid of everything. Especially himself.

That's what the books said, and didn't their tales feel so much truer than what adults pretended this world to be about? Only books talked about all the things adults didn't want you to ask about - Life. Death. Good and Evil. And what else truly mattered in life.

In Consiliis nostris fatum nostrum est, the words read. In our choices lie our fate.

You'll meet her. She's very pretty, even though sometimes she's sad for many days at a time. You'll see, when she smiles, you'll love her.

Los mortales no entienden que la vida no es un libro que cierras solo cuando has leído la última página. No existe tal cosa en el Libro de la Vida, ya que la última página siempre es la misma de la historia siguiente.

Seu pai o conduzirá com cuidado até a ponta do penhasco e depois o segurará com força. Quando o filho tentou recuar, o homem o agarrou e o forçou a olhar para o abismo. "Sentiu medo?", perguntou o pai. "Nunca se esqueça disso. É o que vai sentir toda vez que fraquejar.

Humans asked them about everything, but they usually weren't half as good at finding the answers.

Ofelia could still hear Mercedes crying while the blood of the dying girl in her arms was dripping down into the well. She recognized the lullaby Mercedes hummed. And then... Ofelia smiled - oh, so faintly - and then could hear no more. And Mercedes bent over the dead girl and sobbed until the dark hard was wet with her tears.

gods can’t die,” Grover said. “They can fade,” Pan said, “when everything they stood for is gone.

We should go now,” he said, “and tell them. The great god Pan is dead.

Juniper sniffled. She wiped her silky sleeve under her eyes. “It’s Grover. He seems so distraught. All year he’s been out looking for Pan. And every time he comes back, it’s worse. I thought maybe, at first, he was seeing another tree.

So many questions. Humans asked them about everything, but they usually weren't half as good at finding the answers.

Libraries don't keep secrets; they reveal them

That was the use of knives for women: to cut food for the men who killed with their knives… who killed those women's husbands, their sons, and their daughters.

He felt so tired and angry. Maybe his anger was mostly caused by his exhaustion and lack of hope. And don’t forget the fear, he told himself. Fear that the good causes never win—that they can only hold up evil for a while.

De grote god Pan is dood. - Grover

The forest offered so much to those who honored it.

He. Nobody spoke his name. Vidal. It sounded like a stone thrown through a window

Os livros poderiam ensiná-la tanto sobre este mundo e outros lugares distantes, sobre animais e plantas, sobre estrelas! Podiam ser janelas e portas, asas de papel par ajudá-la a voar para bem longe.

Os livros poderiam ensiná-la tanto sobre este mundo e outros lugares distantes, sobre animais e plantas, sobre estrelas! Podiam ser janelas e portas, asas de papel para ajudá-la a voar para bem longe.

Mercedes stepped back to her brother’s side, the baby in her arms while Vidal stared at the watch’s shattered face, its hands counting away his last moments as meticulously, as it had counted away all the years since his father’s death.