Top 40 Poetic Fiction Quotes
#1. Although this is poetic fiction, it contains hidden moral truths worthy of being heeded and understood and imitated, ...
Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra
#2. We divert our attention from disease and death as much as we can; the slaughterhouses are huddled out of sight and never mentioned, so that the world we recognize officially in literature and in society is a poetic fiction far handsomer, cleaner and better than the world that really is.
William James
#3. There were tiny stars behind my eyelids, a whole galaxy of tiny, spinning stars.
Lucy Christopher
#4. It isn't a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.
Lauren DeStefano
#5. I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
Lauren DeStefano
#6. Bright spots move around him like someone shook the stars from a blanket and they all went flying.
Lauren DeStefano
#7. Fiction is overrated, Fly. We've discussed this. In the time it takes those novelist fuckers to contemplate a few poetic passages, a thousand kids die from malnutrition. Immediacy, man, that's what counts.
Rawi Hage
#9. I was working the hole with the Sailor and we did not bad fifteen cents on average night boosting the afternoons and short timing the dawn we made out from the land of the free but I was running out of veins.
William S. Burroughs
#10. It radiates out from him like a cloud of ghosts, countless hands clutching at the air, reaching out for ... something.
Isaac Marion
#11. I didn't look back, but I knew you were still watching. It probably sounds weird, but I could just feel it. The hairs on my neck bristled when you blinked.
Lucy Christopher
#12. The one thing fiction and non-fiction writing have in common for me is that sense of trying to get the sentences to be minimal but at the same time be a little overfull - to encourage them to do a kind of poetic work.
George Saunders
#13. It was like I'd stepped out into an afterlife. Only there were no angels.
Lucy Christopher
#14. There were tiny rainbows in that glass. I turned it so a rainbow danced across my hand.
Lucy Christopher
#15. The Bible may be an arresting and
poetic work of fiction, but it is not the sort of book you should give
your children to form their morals.
Richard Dawkins
#16. Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
Lauren DeStefano
#17. The sun was bobbing on the horizon, just peeking over. Its light shimmered on the sand behind you, making your body look like it was glowing ... like it had a kind of aura.
Lucy Christopher
#18. Birds are everywhere in our literature, a part, it seems, of our collective poetic imagination. If writing a beautiful line of poetry fills a poet's heart with joy, imagine how that same poet's soul must take flight at the sight of swallows soaring through the evening sky!
Lynn Thomson
#19. Your beautiful mouth was moving like a caterpillar. I reached out and tried to catch it.
Lucy Christopher
#20. He talks softly, patiently, as I sit on the window ledge and watch boats with colorful triangles for sails scratch the ocean.
Lauren DeStefano
#21. This time as we ascend, I watch the world sinking below us. I watch the way the city fades into sand that gets washed by the ocean.
Lauren DeStefano
#22. I didn't want the person standing there, beside the bed, to have the same face I'd found so attractive at the airport. But you were there all right: the blue eyes, blondish hair, and tiny scar. Only you didn't look beautiful this time. Just evil.
Lucy Christopher
#24. The dust of thirty years hung lifeless in shafts of morning light, the gilding of perfectly prim pages shone incanescent, the shriek of rolling ladders mourned in perennial soliloquy.
Michelle Franklin
#25. Ty?" I said, trying out your name, liking the way it sounded. "So what's it like anyway? Australia?"
You smiled then, and your whole face changed with it. It kind of lit up, like there were sunbeams coming from inside you.
"You'll find out," you said.
Lucy Christopher
#26. I feel unburdened, and after a while I start to imagine that the divan is a boat moving over the ocean. Sunken cities play music beneath the waves. The ghosts are stirring.
Lauren DeStefano
#27. The sand stretched out gray and ghostlike and illuminated, a column of light leading forward. It was like something a dead person would see, a tunnel leading toward heaven.
Lucy Christopher
#29. He rubbed my arm, whispering words that sounded like moth bodies flying into glass windows.
Lauren DeStefano
#30. I see an ocean that's spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.
Lauren DeStefano
#31. Whole life is a search for beauty. But, when the beauty is found inside, the search ends and a beautiful journey begins.
Harshit Walia
#32. I remember the lights turning into blurs of blazing fire. I remember the air-conditioning chilling my arms. The smell of coffee smudging into the smell of eucalyptus.
Lucy Christopher
#34. I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets.
Lauren DeStefano
#35. Far, far away something made a single ghostly howl, like a banshee in the dark.
Lucy Christopher
#36. The windows are empty holes lined with glass teeth.
Isaac Marion
#37. I wipe at her cheeks with the cuff of my green sweater because it's the softest thing I can think of. It catches her tears without absorbing them, and they hang between the fibers like stars.
Lauren DeStefano
#38. She was supposed to build sand castles on the beach and put her toes in the ocean, Madame says.
Lauren DeStefano
#39. It feels as though we're going in slow motion. I think we'll never get away. But eventually the Ferris wheel is far enough away that it could be a moving constellation.
Lauren DeStefano
#40. But the nice man had cold eyes. When interacting with his fascinated lady-harem, they had been blue. But when he turned his attention to me - however briefly - I could have sworn that they turned gray, the color of water beneath a sky from which snow will soon fall.
Stephen King
