Peter Pan's Shadow Quotes

I wasn't crying about mothers," he said rather indignantly. "I was crying because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn't crying.

You were created for more than to bear the weight of your shadows- but you have to choose to no longer let them define you. You have to choose to let the light shine through the shattered pieces.” – Tiger Lilly

For the next couple of weeks she held Peter like a secret in her heart, lying right under her necklace. I could see him written on her face, and Tik Tok, too, seemed to catch shadows of him, because he'd stop to stare at her, puzzled, as if he'd just seen the boy flit across her eyes-seen the ghost of the kiss lingering for a second on the skin of her neck before disappearing.

If he thought at all, but I don't believe he ever thought, it was that he and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops of water...

I remember when I saw Peter Pan when I was little. After all the other kids wanted to reenact the battles of the lost boys, pirates, and Indians, and all I could think about was the part where Peter Pan sits still while Wendy takes a sharp needle and, with concern and maybe love, sews his shadow onto his feet. And I wonder if the pain excited him as much as it excited me to watch. I hang here, the voices still bleeding in my ears. I watch my shadow, solid like a murdered body's outline, and I pray. Maybe one more slice, just one more, will sever it forever.

Why doesn’t he get over it already? But that was the secret, wasn’t it? You never got over what you lost. You always carried it with you, stitched to you like Peter Pan’s shadow. And you never wanted to get over it, because who wanted to forget a time that had been so important? No, the truth was, you wanted to remember it always.

Without shadows there would be no light. You can't Have on without the other.

How to explain this? A shadow kytaen becomes, in a way, the shadow of their keeper, and when the keeper chooses it to, the shadow will detach itself like It did just then.’ ‘What, like Peter Pan?

None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows, little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's good-night story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said happily:

In the fourth level, for example, Alice, after a major operation, becomes separated from her body, and she has to chase through the hospital to catch it, like Peter Pan and his shadow. This dissociation was something Sam had experienced many times—the feeling that your body, when it was sick, was no longer your own.

Swear... swear by the pirates' code!" Hook looked exasperated. Wendy put her hands on her hips. She knew about boys trying to sneak out of promises. She had two younger brothers. You had to be very specific with your orders and wishes, or they were as wily and untrustworthy as evil genies. And what was a pirate, really, but a boy grown, with a real sword and a mustache? "Swear it," she repeated. She could have sworn she heard muffled laughter from behind him on the deck. Hook sighed. All right, all right. I swear on the pirates' code: I, Captain Hook, promise that in return for Peter Pan's shadow I shall grant Wendy Darling passage to Never Land and home- when circumstances allow it.

“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.

you may be the boy who lost almost everything because of his mistakes and the brokenness of other people that he couldn't control, but you are also the boy who chose not to run. Who returned to his broken Never Never Land and had fought to bring light to this place, even when the shadows nearly drowned it all. You love Neverland more than anyone could, and I love you for it.

There will come a day when you're strolling, the sun casting the perfect shadow, and you'll experience a Peter Pan moment of excitement and joy—a feeling you never thought possible after enduring narcissistic abuse.

The psychologist Dan Kiley, in 1983, coined the Peter Pan Syndrome.  He wrote in his book, that for every Peter Pan there is a Wendy as his shadow.  Kiley figured there was a responsible motherly figure, Wendy, that would be the nurturing caregiver.  Peter would be the wounded boy in need of the kind, warming, and responsible Wendy.

Thus it was we entered a low eating-house on the lamplit shores of the river in a Moslem neighbourhood, a modest boxwood shanty having no walls at all, but sufficiently screened with hanging bags. There were several benches and three tables, and upon each table were oil-lamps which cast soft shadows on the haze of airborne cooking-fats and wood-smoke, and gently illuminating a dozen Africans at food; on the floor at the farther end were cooking-fires, and a fine diversity of smells arose from bubbling pots and sizzling pans. The chef was a robust ogre of glistening dark bronze with an incense pastille smouldering in his hair, a swearing, sweating Panta-gruel naked to the waist and stoking fires, lifting lids, and scooping out great globs of meat and manioc and fish: he might have been cooking skulls on the shores of River Styx.

She sighed and looked at Snowball. "Pretty doggy," she said, giving him a pet. "When they gave you to me they were only trying to make me happy. They really do think this nannying abroad, this... gothic situation, would be good for me. But I don't like gothic novels, Snowball. They're dreary. "I suppose it could have been worse, like an arranged marriage. All right, perhaps that's going a bit far. It's really a bit more Charlotte than Emily. 'A serious introduction to a proper boy,' then." She carefully moved Snowball so she could give Nana a good petting too. "I thought Peter Pan was the proper boy for me. But all I have is a shadow of him.

But Peter just stood there gazing at her, mouth agape. Wendy looked down at herself; she hadn't even realized how heroic a pose she struck. From her shadow- which took this opportunity to actually behave- she realized how she appeared:powerful, strong... with a scandalously short tunic cinched around her waist and improvised leggings that showed a prodigious amount of her newly tanned skin. Her hair was down around her shoulders. She bet she was the spitting image of an Amazon, short a bow. "Gosh, Wendy, you sure look different from when I first saw you," Peter mumbled. Tinker Bell put her hands on her hips and started to jingle. "Well, I must be off," Wendy said quickly. "Bye!" And she took off into the air, like Nike, triumphant.

Can I?” Bash asks. Peter Pan drops into a chair and nods his consent. Bash gets behind me, still bent over the table. He’s bare for me in seconds and nestles into my heat. “Little Darling whore, such a filthy little mess.” I shiver beneath his words. “Brother,” he says. “Get over here.” Kas hesitates and I lift off the table to look down the length of it at him. There is something dark in his eyes. A hunger he doesn’t want to satiate. Kas is the nice one, but I don’t think he’s nice enough to deny what he wants to take. He gets up, kicks a chair aside and comes to the edge of the table by my face. “Fuck yeah,” Bash says as he pushes into me. “Wrap those pretty little lips around my brother’s cock.” Kas doesn’t wait. Now that he’s made his decision, he’s ready to act on it. He takes a length of my hair, wraps it around his fist and guides my mouth over his length. He fills me up as Bash starts pumping into me. My heart races in my ears and thuds heavily in my chest. Kas fucks my mouth roughly, hitting the back of my throat. I gasp, choking on him, and Bash tightens his grip on my hips. “Take it all, Darling. Be a good girl.” Holy shit. Fuck, this is hot. Tears fill my eyes as the twins fill me up, fucking me in both holes, relentlessly, mercilessly. And as they do, I catch sight of Peter Pan in the shadows, watching me get fucked with a look on his face that I think is satisfaction. And out of all of it tonight, that is what makes me feel most powerful. I am so fucking alive. Bash thrusts harder, faster. Kas pumps into my mouth, groaning deep in his chest. “You ready to fill her up, brother?” Bash says.

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.

Our shoes pin us to the world, like Peter Pan to his shadow. More than simply facilitating our movement out-of-doors, they mediate between the wearer and the ground. Perhaps it is less the world they pin us to, but our place in it; that shadow of society that follows wherever we go.

She returned to the floor, and a tray appeared beside her with a sandwich, glass of milk, and some cubes of cantaloupe. She didn't know who brought it in, but she picked up a piece of the cantaloupe and examined it. The color matched some of the roses in the lady's garden, exactly what she needed for the flowers she'd drawn behind her butterfly. Yellow, white, and a dab of red- she combined them on the plate until a soft peach colored her palette. Walter thought she should grow up, like the lady wanted Oliver to do, but grown-ups didn't spend their nights dancing in gardens. Or painting. "I will stay a girl forever," she whispered, changing the lyrics from 'Peter Pan.' "And be banished if I don't." She began to paint her butterfly. "I'll never grow up," she chanted as she worked. It wasn't until the first rays of dawn spilled across her paper that she began to feel sleepy. Her floor was covered with pictures and papers, but where others might see a mess, she saw a new world. There were flowers and trees and butterflies she'd brought to life with her hands. And her heart. A lot of people thought she wasn't good at anything, but it wasn't true. She was good at making things.

While I was grateful for the progress made and the blessings I had received, there was no gratitude toward this enemy. This was war. I didn't want this to define me, to color how I saw the world, but it was not easy. It literally cloaked me like Peter Pan's wayward shadow. I felt it's presence with every step, with the electrical currents that stabbed occasionally through my feet, with ripping-like pain in my tendons, with every glass that I dropped, with every quiet moment that now rang in my ears. On days when the walls closed in, I was aware. Even in sleep, it frequently tormented me. My dreams were filled with situations in which I couldn't walk, I couldn't function. Unconscious reminders that reinforced loss and an unknown future thereby undoing the day's progress and gratitude work. I was different. And so was my world.

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)

Stop that,” I tell him. “Stop what?” “Using the shadow to know what I’m thinking.” “Ohhh.” Bash pops his mouth open, ready to devour the secrets. “Tell us what she’s thinking.” “She likes the thought of being queen.” “Hey!” Vane smiles. Pan laughs. “Of course she does. Our little Darling whore bosses us around. Why not all of Neverland?” “As if I could ever command you, Peter Pan.

Mapletown General Hospital was based on every hospital he’d ever stayed in, and Alice’s illness and treatment, which comprised many of the Mapletown side quests and levels, was given the kind of corpuscular detail that could only have come from someone who had been chronically ill and understood the indignities of hospital life. In the fourth level, for example, Alice, after a major operation, becomes separated from her body, and she has to chase through the hospital to catch it, like Peter Pan and his shadow. This dissociation was something Sam had experienced many times—the feeling that your body, when it was sick, was no longer your own.