Wandering Tales Lost Quotes

Fairy tales are full of girls who wait, who endure, who suffer. Good girls. Obedient girls. Girls who crush nettles until their hands bleed. Girls who haul water for witches. Girls who wander through deserts or sleep in ashes or make homes for transformed brothers in the woods. Girls without hands, without eyes, without the power of speech, without any power at all. But then a prince rides up and sees the girl and finds her beautiful. Beautiful, not despite her suffering, but because of it.

Life has no obligation to make sense, and the beauty of it is that it rarely does, but if you can get lost in the sweet spot in between, you may find some answers, too - or at least create some good stories.

So I decided I would do everything my Dad had not, everything I would need to have the perspective and point of view I felt he lacked, even if it meant getting lost, hurt, in trouble, or ending up somewhere I could never have dreamed of.

Thousands of miles from all the people closest to me, this stranger became my mother, my father, and my family attending to me like a lost child in her village, with the ease and comfort a grandmother would show to her loved ones. All without us exchanging a single word.

Maybe life as you know it has shifted. But just because you’re lost doesn’t mean you can’t explore.

So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveler, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that if affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would remember home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

my experience is that when undergoing severe physical labor the mind is not at all active. One thinks of the particular problem in hand or perhaps the mind just wanders not performing coherent thought. As to missing various phases of civilized life, one has no time to miss anything save food or sleep or rest. In short one becomes little more than a rational animal.

She was no better than the shells by her feet, tumbling this way and that at the beck and call of the waves.

It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end.

Fairy tales are full of girls who wait, who endure, who suffer. Good girls. Obedient girls. Girls who crush nettles until their hands bleed. Girls who haul water for witches. Girls who wander through deserts or sleep in ashes or make homes for transformed brothers in the woods. Girls without hands, without eyes, without the power of speech, without any power at all. But then a prince rides up and sees the girl and finds her beautiful. Beautiful, not despite her suffering, but because of it. And when I saw that note in my bag, I thought that maybe I was no longer stuck in a fairy tale, maybe I could be the hero of one.

I am a Black woman, therefore, I am destined to protect myself. Our men have wandered too far to beckon. They are lost guardians. Thus, you learn early on how to wield your sword & hoist your shield -- how to stand shoulder to shoulder with your sister in battle and wail a cry that never seems to be loud enough. And I am tired. If only I could rest. To be a Queen with no infantry is a painful sight indeed. They do not yield to my crown. How useless is my throne, if I am to continue to fight alone?

There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome. For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun. A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost - how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome. This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star. To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.

Fawcett, who had always found refuge in the natural world, no longer recognized the wilderness of bombed-out villages, denuded trees, craters, and sunbaked skeletons. As Lyne wrote in his diary, “Dante would never have condemned lost souls to wander in so terrible a purgatory.

You might be surprised,' she laughed. 'Maybe life as you know it has shifted. But just because you're lost doesn't mean you can't explore.

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

All children, as long as they still live in the mystery, are continuously occupied in their souls with the only thing that is important, which is themselves and their enigmatic relationship to the world around them. Seekers and wise people return to these preoccupations as they mature. Most people, however, forget and leave forever this inner world of the truly significant very early in their lives. Like lost souls they wander about for their entire lives in the multicoloured maze of worries, wishes, and goals, none of which dwells in their innermost being and none of which leads them to their innermost core

Amor Fati Little soul, you have wandered lost a long time. The woods all dark now, birded and eyed. Then a light, a cabin, a fire, a door standing open. The fairy tales warn you: Do not go in, you who would eat will be eaten. You go in. You quicken. You want to have feet. You want to have eyes. You want to have fears.

None of us have ever left the borders of this forest, we do not know the way out of it. And to have found yourself here, this means you are lost in the woods, too – if you were to follow the stream backwards, you would never find the place where you entered it, as the water have erased your tracks and the forest have changed, so really you can only get out of it by chance, if you are to ever get out of here alive.

So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveler, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

It is finished. The tale is told truthfully, and truth is no heavier, no more beautiful than lies. Yet there is something that makes me love the truth, and that love made me wander and worry until the truth was given to you, like a gift. For this in the end is what we have. The love of something. Wild ponies. A kiss salted by tears. The scent of raspberry syrup in a bottle. Oranges. Two lost children who come to your house in the dark forest. There is much to love, and that love is what we are left with. When the bombs stop dropping, and the camps fall back to the earth and decay, and we are done killing each other, that is what we must hold. We can never let the world take our memories of love away, and if there are no memories, we must invent love all over again. The wheel turns. Blue above, green below, we wander a long way, but love is what the cup of our soul contains when we leave the world and the flesh. This we will drink forever. I know. I am Magda. I am the witch.

It’s a long story,” he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn’s whiskey, “so I will tell only a very condensed version of it. “Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in the green, unpolluted countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a hunger of the soul that could not be denied.” Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing. He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of my heart.” The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but lies. “I don’t believe I had moods,” she said severely. “No, of course not. ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’—and the tides of my heart only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden.” Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop by drop. “Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always. The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps, for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart. “But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, ‘My hair has turned white. It is a sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours again.’” Her heart pounded again. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He’d made it up out of whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd. “And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red, brown, and black, ‘I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?’” He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless Braeburns. “And now I have found you at last.” He raised his glass. “To the beginning of the rest of our lives.

From that Sunday on Preacher Franklin added a new song to the service called , 'I Am Better Than You' and it went like this: Many years I wandered lost and scared, Through troubles and toils my wickedness flared Then in my darkness I realized what I needed to do Now I do all the right things and I am better than you. Chorus: Better than you, yes I am better than you My life has a purpose and I can tell you what to do Better than you, yes I am better than you If you are a scared miserable loser, I will help pull you through.

A late arrival had the impression of lots of loud people unnecessarily grouped within a smoke-blue space between two mirrors gorged with reflections. Because, I suppose, Cynthia wished to be the youngest in the room, the women she used to invite, married or single, were, at the best, in their precarious forties; some of them would bring from their homes, in dark taxis, intact vestiges of good looks, which, however, they lost as the party progressed. It has always amazed me - the capacity sociable weekend revelers have of finding almost at once, by a purely empiric but very precise method, a common denominator of drunkenness, to which everybody loyally sticks before descending, all together, to the next level. The rich friendliness of the matrons was marked by tomboyish overtones, while the fixed inward look of amiably tight men was like a sacrilegious parody of pregnancy. Although some of the guests were connected in one way or another with the arts, there was no inspired talk, no wreathed, elbow-propped heads, and of course no flute girls. From some vantage point where she had been sitting in a stranded mermaid pose on the pale carpet with one or two younger fellows, Cynthia, her face varnished with a film of beaming sweat, would creep up on her knees, a proffered plate of nuts in one hand, and crisply tap with the other the athletic leg of Cochran or Corcoran, an art dealer, ensconced, on a pearl-grey sofa, between two flushed, happily disintegrating ladies. At a further stage there would come spurts of more riotous gaiety. Corcoran or Coransky would grab Cynthia or some other wandering woman by the shoulder and lead her into a corner to confront her with a grinning imbroglio of private jokes and rumors, whereupon, with a laugh and a toss of her head, he would break away. And still later there would be flurries of intersexual chumminess, jocular reconciliations, a bare fleshy arm flung around another woman's husband (he standing very upright in the midst of a swaying room), or a sudden rush of flirtatious anger, of clumsy pursuit-and the quiet half smile of Bob Wheeler picking up glasses that grew like mushrooms in the shade of chairs. ("The Vane Sisters")

In the mirror every morning, I see a face of dreams, A heart full of wander, bursting at the seams. I'm a rolling stone on this winding road, Chasing the horizon, carrying my load. I need to be strong, I need to be wise, Need to be the truth in a world of lies. I need to be the light when the night falls deep, I need to be the promise that I intend to keep. I've worn many hats, played many parts, Sang with the joyous, danced with broken hearts. But through every role, I've come to see, The only thing I need to be is me. I need to be brave, I need to be kind, Need to be the vision when the world's gone blind. I need to be the hope when doubts arise, I need to be the love that never dies. Like a river flows to the open sea, I'll keep moving on to where I need to be. With every step, I'll find my way, To be the man I'm meant to be, come what may. So here's to the dreamers, reaching for the stars, To the healers, the believers, bearing their scars. We're all on a journey, finding our place, In this grand old tale, the human race. We need to be strong, we need to be wise, Need to be the truth in a world of lies. We need to be the light when the night falls deep, We need to be the promise that we intend to keep. So when you're feeling lost, and you're in too deep, Remember the strength, the promises you keep. For whatever you need to be, you'll find inside, In the heart of a cowboy, where the truest selves reside. This captures the essence of striving to be the best version of oneself, with a nod to the cowboy spirit of resilience and hope that you seem to appreciate.

Whatever I need to be In the mirror every morning, I see a face of dreams, A heart full of wander, bursting at the seams. I'm a rolling stone on this winding road, Chasing the horizon, carrying my load. I need to be strong, I need to be wise, Need to be the truth in a world of lies. I need to be the light when the night falls deep, I need to be the promise that I intend to keep. I've worn many hats, played many parts, Sang with the joyous, danced with broken hearts. But through every role, I've come to see, The only thing I need to be is me. I need to be brave, I need to be kind, Need to be the vision when the world's gone blind. I need to be the hope when doubts arise, I need to be the love that never dies. Like a river flows to the open sea, I'll keep moving on to where I need to be. With every step, I'll find my way, To be the man I'm meant to be, come what may. So here's to the dreamers, reaching for the stars, To the healers, the believers, bearing their scars. We're all on a journey, finding our place, In this grand old tale, the human race. We need to be strong, we need to be wise, Need to be the truth in a world of lies. We need to be the light when the night falls deep, We need to be the promise that we intend to keep. So when you're feeling lost, and you're in too deep, Remember the strength, the promises you keep. For whatever you need to be, you'll find inside, In the heart of a cowboy, where the truest selves reside. This captures the essence of striving to be the best version of oneself, with a nod to the cowboy spirit of resilience and hope that you seem to appreciate.

If a beam from Eärendel fall on a child new-born he becomes ‘a child of Eärendel’ and a wanderer.

The wild forests of his youth—perhaps they no longer existed. The world was too strictly regulated now. The idea of being able to find his way back to that waldhütte where he had been raised—to the extent he had been raised—was as impossible as Nastaran’s need to return to her lost childhood in Persia. It couldn’t happen. Idle thoughts for a tedious journey. No value could attach to revisiting youth, even if he could manage it somehow. Still, the notion returned, and he had to throw it down repeatedly, like bread crumbs in some old tale—hoping the wild thrushes would eat them up. Despite the romantic stories that had become so popular—even Felix’s little boys adored the sweetened renditions of Grimm as served up by stern Frau Gouvernante—sometimes one wandered into the woods because the ominous woods were safer than home was.

There are many stories of war to tell. You will hear them all. But remember among those who were lost, some made it through. Among the dragons there will always be heroes. Even there. Even then. And of those tales ending in defeat, tales of death and orphans wandering among the ruined, some ended the other way too.

Later, toward the end of my presidency, The New York Times would run an article about my visits to the military hospitals. In it, a national security official from a previous administration opined that the practice, no matter how well intentioned, was not something a commander in chief should do—that visits with the wounded inevitably clouded a president’s capacity to make clear-eyed, strategic decisions. I was tempted to call that man and explain that I was never more clear-eyed than on the flights back from Walter Reed and Bethesda. Clear about the true costs of war, and who bore those costs. Clear about war’s folly, the sorry tales we humans collectively store in our heads and pass on from generation to generation—abstractions that fan hate and justify cruelty and force even the righteous among us to participate in carnage. Clear that by virtue of my office, I could not avoid responsibility for lives lost or shattered, even if I somehow justified my decisions by what I perceived to be some larger good. Looking through the helicopter window at the tidy green landscape below, I thought about Lincoln during the Civil War, his habit of wandering through makeshift infirmaries not so far from where we were flying, talking softly to soldiers who lay on flimsy cots, bereft of antiseptics to stanch infections or drugs to manage pain, the stench of gangrene everywhere, the clattering and wheezing of impending death. I wondered how Lincoln had managed it, what prayers he said afterward. He must have known it was a necessary penance. A penance I, too, had to pay.

The Folk love glamour and beauty.” Lilja nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose. Although in our stories, they love—what is the word in English? Misfits? Yes, they love misfits just as well. Hermits and tinkers, wanderers and poets—more tales revolve around such people than the glamorous ones. Is this only in Ljosland?” “Misfits?” I echoed, smiling slightly. “No—it is not only there.

I cherish the moonlight, a soft, silver glow, painting the night with a luminous flow. It whispers of secrets in shadows that sway, guiding lost wanderers who’ve drifted away. The rainstorms arrive with a passionate cry, a symphony pouring from the vast, stormy sky. Each drop is a heartbeat, each flash is a spark, igniting the soul in the depths of the dark. I revel in moments that breathe with a pulse, in laughter and longing, in silence and impulse. From the rustle of leaves to the songs of the sea, so many things hold a spirit in me. Enchanted by dolphins, in oceans so grand, their playful leaps echo the joy of the land. They dance with the waves, in a shimmering play, whispering tales of the deep, where the heart longs to stay. The warmth of the sun on a crips summer day, the dance of the fireflies that flicker and sway. In the essence of life, where the wild things roam, I find the deep beauty that calls me back home. In the hush of the tide, where the mysteries dwell, I’m wrapped in the magic that words cannot tell. From moonlit reflections to the ocean's embrace, I love all the wonders that fill this vast space...

Above Erin, hovers a halo of romance, strangeness and of mysticism. Feel isolation, rest, wander, listen to the ocean winds, linger, lost in the mists. When there are dark days and stormy nights, sit beside a blazing fire of fragrant peat in a peasant’s straw-thatched cottage listening to tales of Ireland’s golden age – Gods, heroes, ghosts and fairy folk. Then you will know Ireland and why its people believe in fairies.

Fairy tales are full of girls who wait, who endure, who suffer. Good girls. Obedient girls. Girls who crush nettles until their hands bleed. Girls who haul water for witches. Girls who wander through deserts or sleep in ashes or make homes for transformed brothers in the woods. Girls without hands, without eyes, without the power of speech, without any power at all.

mysticism. Feel isolation, rest, wander, listen to the ocean winds, linger, lost in the mists. When there are dark days and stormy nights, sit beside a blazing fire of fragrant peat in a peasant’s straw-thatched cottage listening to tales of Ireland’s golden age – Gods, heroes, ghosts and fairy folk. Then you will know Ireland and why its people believe in fairies.

While originating in Scotland, boggarts are the ultimate wanderers and have appeared in faerie stories throughout the British Isles and France, and in several disputed tales from Spain. Yet, as is to be expected with the Folk, they are also full of contradictions; once a boggart has found a home it likes, it rarely stirs therefrom, and many stories depict the bodiless creatures as bound to crumbling ruins, either unwilling or unable to part from their homes.

His intense eyes cut through my skin, grabbed hold of my soul, and gently caressed it. There was a serenity lurking behind the walls of his madman illusion—a false imprisonment of a wonderland I wanted to wander in. A place I could get lost in.

When I have the approximate distance a grouse has gone, and his direction of flight, I follow him, but I try never to go straight at him. Wild game is alwavs able to recognize a hunter who acts as if he were on the warpath. As I never walk directly toward a grouse, so I never try to sneak up on him. That is a maneuver that will scare the wits out of him. My general attitude in approaching game is that of elaborate and rather goofy indifference; I try to act as if I were idly looking for posies, or dreaming of some lost love of the long ago. The hunter who is stalking, if he shows himself at all, should always try to create the impression that he is doing anything else in the world but hunt. By this sort of trickery I have often been able to walk within twenty feet of a grouse, whereas, had I stormed down at him, he probably should have kited out of cover while I was still fifty yards away. If you want a real chance at your grouse, don’t let him say of you, “Oh, my gosh, here comes that killer!” Always persuade him to say unconcernedly, “I wonder who that booby is, wandering around vaguely?