There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.
songs, to me, were more important than just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality. Some different republic, some liberated republic... whatever the case, it wasn't that I was anti-popular culture or anything and I had no ambition to stir things up. I just thought of mainstream culture as lame as hell and a big trick. It was like the unbroken sea of frost that lay outside the window and you had to have awkward footgear to walk with.
Storytellers seldom let facts get in the way of perpetuating a legend, although a few facts add seasoning and make the legend more believable.
Oh, he did look like a deity – the perfect balance of danger and charm, he was at the same time fascinating and inaccessible, distant because of his demonstrated flawlessness, and possessing such strength of character that he was dismaying and at the same time utterly attractive in an enticing and forbidden way.
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.
You were so intent on what your purpose would be. I remember it nearly word for word.Recite it for me then, my Lainna.She smiled a warm, soft smile, and her eyes filled with light.You would waken in your bedchamber with your lady beside you...
Solitude is the soil in which genius is planted, creativity grows, and legends bloom; faith in oneself is the rain that cultivates a hero to endure the storm, and bare the genesis of a new world, a new forest.
The story was told, generation by generation, in song and in story, until time misted it into myth and legend. But some believed, as legends brought comfort.
People believe that Noah's Ark is a legend when we are already apart of this legend, look around what do you see?
There is something to be said for the night. The darkness holds a sense of promise, as if anything could happen. Maybe something good, like a handsome stranger or something with snarling teeth that whispers pretty things as it eats you. Thus, the night is a test. A test of fear and the sweet promise of pain.
When people starts to enjoy a writer's pen, he becomes a legend even if his stories are neither long nor publicly surrounded by expectations.
June has never looked more beautiful than she does now, unadorned and honest, vulnerable yet invincible.
A person who is truly cool is a work of art. And remember, original works of art cost exponentially higher than imitations. Just take a look at the the coolest people in history. They will always be a part of history for being extremely original individuals, not imitations.
I set about seeking a thread, a theme, a style, in the realm of legend. Something that might allow me to give free rein to my juvenile sense of romanticism and the beautiful image.
So, how close are love and genius, really? We know that they are both mentioned far more than lived.
Don't even listen to No body including your friends who tells you to Move On in life. They often will have destroyed your Motivation causing an unexpected anxiety, and a severe brain stress until you give up. No matter how dead serious they are in order for you to understand them, reject their Anti-statement with the Power of your Assertion. They will foolishly halter your situation you had been encountering over the past year, when it all started from the beginning.Therefore, you MUST KEEP MOVING FORWARD.DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE.Train yourself to get strong so you can outsmart and surpass the famous people who came before you.That is the way of succeeding in life in order to prove to everyone you've overcome the Obstacles and your Anxiety.Keep moving forward always surpasses moving on.
Many think that the mark of a great champion is the nature and margin of their victories and the peaks they scale and reach. That’s only part of it. The mark of the greatest of champions is how they react and respond to defeat. That is when they become enshrined in our hearts and minds – as they rise again and into the immortal pages of history.
The highest goodness is like water.Water is beneficial to all things but not contend. It stays in places which others despise. Therefore it is near Tao. The weakest things in the world can overmatch the strongest things in the world. Nothing in the world can be compared to water for its weak and yielding nature; yet in attacking the hard and strong nothing proves better than water. For there is no alternative to it. The weak can overcome and the yielding can overcame the hard. This all the world knows but does not practice. This again is the practice of ‘wu-wel’ and nonviolence. Water may be weak, pliable, fluid, but its action is not one of running away from an obstacle. On the contrary, it gives at the point of resistance, envelopes the object and passes beyond it. Ultimately it will wear down the hardest rock. Water is a more telling symbol than land… crossing the river to get to the other side is, again, attaining the state of enlightenment.
The world rides through space on the back of a turtle. This is one of the great ancient world myths, found wherever men and turtles were gathered together; the four elephants were an Indo-European sophistication. The idea has been lying in the lumber rooms of legend for centuries. All I had to do was grab it and run away before the alarms went off.There are no maps. You can't map a sense of humour. Anyway, what is a fantasy map but a space beyond which There Be Dragons? On the Discworld we know There Be Dragons Everywhere. They might not all have scales and forked tongues, but they Be Here all right, grinning and jostling and trying to sell you souvenirs.
I mean,” he said, “that by your own showing, the greatest threat to heaven comes from within the ranks of the angels themselves. Before you can prove to me that heroes can defeat villains with nothing but the purest chivalric ideals, you must convince me that heroes do exist, and that villains are not a fanciful tale for children. You must tell me, sir, if you dare, that you are incorruptible, and that your colleagues and commanders are as pure as you.
Blanchefleur felt a quick rush of affection for her. When the world frowned, Branwen went on smiling. There was a heart of steel under all that froth and bubble.
In the dim sunset Perceval looked the glade over and said, “Does your lady wife think so little of sending you out on deadly errands?” Sir Gareth unstrapped the blanket from behind his saddle. “It’s our fourth child. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” “Of course,” Perceval said with a grin, “even dragonfire might burn less hot than my lady aunt’s temper.” Sir Gareth cuffed Perceval across the ear. “For that piece of insolence, youngster, you take the first watch. And be glad you are so tender in years that I dare not risk my honour upon you in single combat to prove my Lynet as sweet-tempered as she should be.
Perceval said to the Grail Knight: “Will you break a spear with me this day?” He did not expect Galahad to look down on him from Lancelot’s immense height and say, gently, as if he knew it must disappoint, “Sir, I cannot.” “No? Well, there are others to fight,” said Perceval, trying not to show how vexed he felt to be denied the honour. “Not for any lack of love,” Galahad added. “But for the regard in which I hold you, Perceval of Wales.
How you must hate Logres,” she said in a dry mouth. “Hate Logres?” He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “There is an anger that is deserved, Blanche. Tell me. Look me in the eye, if you can, and tell me—to my face—that Logres is without sin.
That night she dreamed about the King again. She stood in a riverside meadow between greenwood and castle. Overhead the sun shone gilt in a sky like powdered lapis and struck golden sparks from the King's blood-red dragon banner.
She slipped off the lid and took out a little hourglass hanging on a silver pivot from a black ribbon, its belly full of twinkling black sand. Oh, it's beautiful! You like it. Her guardian, the antiquarian, who invested every colour, gemstone, beast, and planet with arcane and symbolic meaning, would likely give her a lecture on saturnine influences. Blanche decided not to care. Yes, I do.
I have fled from the wilderness fasting, with woe and unflagging travail,I have sought for the light on the mountain, and skirted the devilish dale. I have laid my mouth in the dust, and begged the Might to be kind,I have come to the feast, and I famish. Now grant me the Holy Grail.
There was carpet under Blanchefleur’s feet and the scent of clean and delicate things in her nostrils—perfume, babies, soap, and tea. Homesickness hit her like a clenched fist; this was worse than memory.
Oh, Perceval, a falcon is born to hunt, and so are you. One day you will hunt indeed--but not yet. Why? Am I not ready?She looked at him sadly and said, Give me a little longer.
I did not do it for you, sire. Gawain was deadly serious now. Death comes to us and all mortals. I shall still lose you one day. But Logres! The only perfection under heaven would fall if I could not save you.
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.