42 Best Tale Quotes And Sayings

Tales are an ancient form of storytelling that have been passed down through the generations. Tales are great sources of wisdom, inspiration, and entertainment. When you’re looking for a good story to read, it can be difficult to find something with the right balance of entertainment and advice. This collection of tales is perfect for anyone looking for an entertaining read that contains some great quotes.

You know, considering your IQ, you're really socially retarded sometimes.
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You know, considering your IQ, you're really socially retarded sometimes. Shannon Delany
You need mountains, long staircases don't make good hikers.
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You need mountains, long staircases don't make good hikers. Amit Kalantri
Sugar candy tasted better than bitter truth.
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Sugar candy tasted better than bitter truth. Toba Beta
If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst...
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If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One... I am become Death, the Shatterer of Worlds. The Bhagavad Gita
Be a true traveller, don't be a temporary tourist.
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Be a true traveller, don't be a temporary tourist. Amit Kalantri
Trekking means a travelling experience with a thrilling excitement.
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Trekking means a travelling experience with a thrilling excitement. Amit Kalantri
Travelling the road will tell you more about the road...
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Travelling the road will tell you more about the road than the google will tell you about the road. Amit Kalantri
Travelling shouldn't be just a tour, it should be a...
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Travelling shouldn't be just a tour, it should be a tale. Amit Kalantri
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Can you tell me what happened?" Her lips thinned as she shook her head. "'Tis not a happy tale."" You have me reading a book about a girl who tries to kill an entire town. Anything else at this point would be a pick me up. Jenny B. Jones
To spin the tale with great flourish but never live...
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To spin the tale with great flourish but never live the tale is the power of vision strangled to fiction by the fiction of fear. Craig D. Lounsbrough
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Long ago there was a little boy who lived in the wood with his father and his sister. One night, the three of them were out collecting firewood when they heard a low, delicate whimper. The father realised it was an injured animal and ordered the children to fetch water from the lake, whilst he followed the sound. Hours past but the father did not return. The children became fearful for their father’s safety and in their moment of fright, they disobeyed their father in order to find him. And find him they did. However, he was no longer the man he once was. Both his eyes were slit through their centre, oozing blood down the paleness of his face. His neck had been torn open. The entirety of his midsection was split but nothing, not one, single organ, seemed to be left within. Each limb still remained, however they had been dragged, with some exceptional force, in the opposite direction to which they were designed. The children screamed and ran, though the image of their father’s mangled corpse seemed to chase after them. They slept. Within the whisper of the wind came the sweet tune of a woman’s song. The little girl awoke to the feeling of happiness, security and motherly love that the song carried with it. She needed to find the woman it had come from. Leaving her brother, she took off into the wood to try and find the singer. The little boy quickly entered into a spit of panic when he found his sister missing. He didn’t know whether he should call out for her, look for her or wait. But waiting could mean the worst, he thought, and so he took off into the woods after her. He had searched everywhere, every dark corner and decrepit tree, before reaching the lake. The moon reflected off its black surface, which drew his attention to something bobbing within the ripples. It was a leg. When he caught sight of the foot, the boy fell to his knees. He recognised the shoe. It was his sister’s shoe; his sister’s leg. Soon enough, the other body parts came drifting to join the leg, forming a rough manifestation of what was once his sister’s living body. Firstly, there was a head facing down in the water, then arms seemingly blue under the moonlight, and lastly a torso coated in her favourite dress. He felt sick, lost, terrified to his very core. Just as thoughts of never being whole again began to pain his chest, the boy heard the snapping of a twig behind him. He dared to turn around but all he found was a small, black-furred wolf. The wolf approached him timidly, whining deep in its throat to say to the boy that he too was lonely and afraid. The boy put out his hand for the wolf to join him and they sat together. Perhaps he would be OK. Perhaps all that had happened had led to this; something new. He rustled the fur of his new friend, starting with its back then its ear before going under its snout. His hand touched something wet and sticky. He drew it from the wolf to get a better look, only to find a crimson substance now clinging to his small hands. Blood. The wolf turned on the boy as its eyes became a pale blue before thwack! He tore the boy’s face from his head… . S.R. Crawford
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People who don’t construe their life and don’t frame their own tale, stay on the sidelines, remain only an act without a story and turn into an "empty box". Out-of-the-box thinking and inventiveness remains then merely wishfull thinking. ( "Everybody his story" ) Erik Pevernagie
Two forces create eternity — a fairy tale and a...
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Two forces create eternity — a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale. Dejan Stojanovic
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In my heaven sweet melodies of the skies ripple pool of the sea playing sweet song to me, sharing tales of the past, blending with mine as mirage, painting new... I breathe in, am in love and alive... Oksana Rus
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October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or shutting a book, did not end the tale. Having admitted that, he would also avow that happy endings were never difficult to find: "It is simply a matter, " he explained to April, "of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content. Neil Gaiman
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Under every roof, a story, just as behind every brow, a history Gregory Maguire
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The best of fiction, as we know, of course, doesn't tell the truth; it tales the truth. Criss Jami
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Comes the tipping point in life, when we decide to a ‘stop and search’ and our emotional police bring us to a standstill. This allows us to scan all the little details in the spectrum of our being; scour all fuzzy or cryptic elements that are floating around in our mind and restore the fault lines in the cluttered tale of our life. ("The world was somewhere else") Erik Pevernagie
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There is but one world and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these are also the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are of course in the tale itself and the tale has no abode or place of beind except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can never be done with the telling. Of the telling there is no end. And . in whatever . . place by whatever . name or by no name at all . all tales are one. Rightly heard all tales are one. Cormac McCarthy
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And that’s how it is in this world, boy. Start a tale, just a little tale that should fade and die–take your eye off it for just a moment and when you turn back it’s grown big enough to grab you up in its teeth and shake you. That’s how it is. All our lives are tales. Some spread, and grow in the telling. Others are just told between us and the gods, muttered back and forth behind our days, but those tales grow too and shake us just as fierce. Mark Lawrence