Magical Realism Quotes

“What do I have for the witch behind me? Do you want my life, Sorceress?”
― Merlin Franco, Saint Richard Parker

“Embrace her. Embrace her darkness, and when it dawns, you will be stronger.”
― Merlin Franco, Saint Richard Parker

“To be free means always leaving...or returning to a place where leaves never fall.”
― Rich Shapero

“Like everyone, I had,on many previous occasions, ignored a half-open door leading elsewhere - in the chilly passages of strange houses, in backyards, on the outskirts of towns. The frontier of our world is not far away; it doesn't run along the horizon or in the depths. It glimmers faintly close by, in the twilight of our nearest surroundings; out of the corner of our eye we can always glimpse another world, without realizing it. We are walking all the time along a shore and along the edge of a virgin forest. Our gestures would seem to rise out of an entity that also encompasses these concealed spaces, and in an odd way they reveal their shadowy existence, although we are unaware of the roar of waves and shrieks of animals - the disquieting accompaniment to our words (and possibly their secret birthplace); we are unaware of the glittering jewels in the unknown world of nooks and crannies; usually we don't stray off the path even once in our lifetime.”
― Michel Ajvaz

“Our love defies logic and reason, a cosmic connection that words cannot fully capture.”
― Rendi Ansyah, Beyond the Bouquet: A Symphony of Love in Fifty Movements

“You might think the desert dreams of the sea, but I think deserts dream of other deserts, scorched spaces just like themselves. With them, they don’t feel so alien, so bizarre. They don’t have the bother of explaining—the way they would with the sea—how it is they’re all sand and rock and sagebrush and how the only sound is the wind across the earth.”
― Pascha Sotolongo, The Only Sound Is the Wind: Stories

“Troy smiled down at her, and her heart jumped into her throat. The lights turned his skin colors. Red, green, blue. Glimpses of every shade of Troy, and they all looked good. The song ended, and the world seemed to stop, just her and Troy, standing in the middle of the floor.”
― Cindi Madsen, Cipher

“A grown woman tasting a spoonful of Georgia's Mousse au Citron at a late afternoon lunch, then suddenly standing and announcing that she needed to reconcile with her estranged sister before it was too late. She'd hastened away, leaving her coat, one hundred euros to pay the bill, and the mostly uneaten mousse at the table. After devouring Georgia's beet and goat cheese tart one bitter winter evening, an American man with an engagement ring nestled on top of a slice of Georgia's cherry clafoutis looked across the table at his girlfriend and said later that he could suddenly see clearly that she was not the love of his life. He'd hastened back to the kitchen to remove the ring from the dessert where it was waiting to be served at the right moment. They left the restaurant with the ring in his pocket and his girlfriend in tears. There had been others. Many others, now that she thought of it. It had been a bit of a joke among the kitchen staff, that Georgia's dishes could cause more breakups and engagements and family feuds and reconciliations than the restaurant had ever seen. She'd never really put it all together before, but now that she thought of it...
"I think my cooking might give people clarity somehow," Georgia said in surprise.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“Call it magic, call it a deep connection to the earth. It can be labeled many things, but the fact is that every woman in the Stevens line has had some special ability. Your great-grandmother, my grandma Emma, could bake pies that inspired people to tell the truth. One bite of her apple streusel crumb pie and a man would confess to an affair. A forkful of her peach cobbler and feuding siblings would apologize for their mistakes and make up. I'm told her cherry pie was especially popular for making shy beaus finally declare their true love and propose to their sweethearts.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“As she relaxed, she started to notice something happening to the ingredients beneath her fingers. As she touched them, poking and prodding, kneading and caressing, the sensations she used to feel when she cooked started to return. She could feel the icy gurgle of the salt water against weather-barren black rock as she tossed a handful of local mussels into a pot of butter and white wine. She chopped a foraged mushroom and inhaled the damp, loamy soil of the forest spicy with ferns and dripping with cool humidity. She grinned, buoyed by a wave of relief. At least for tonight, her Technicolor senses were in full swing. With a satisfied sigh of contentment, she spooned Star's honey over local goat cheese on rounds of sunflower seed crackers, hearing all around her the nectar-drunk buzzing of the bees. It felt like pure joy to handle the ingredients.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“Georgia closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensations of the island--- the bracing, spicy scent of evergreen needles, the briny creaminess of an oyster still in its shell, the chewy, viscous luxury of Star's honey on the comb, the light acidity of a local cider. And then she cooked what she felt, that sense of wonder, the lightness and clean sea salt air. A sprinkle of salt, the crispness of fresh vegetables, the unctuous luxury of good olive oil.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“Alone without purpose, they fell asleep.”
― Elwin Cotman, Weird Black Girls

“You think your life is unfurling in a certain way, and you let yourself grow happy about it, a smile rising at the slightest thing. A boy in short pants eating a pastelito makes you grin like a lunatic at the vision of your own hoped‐for children, their dark shiny heads rising, year by year, from the Cuban earth, your wife towering behind them, kind and wise. Then you find yourself in a midnight cemetery guarding your mustache from the covetous ghost of an American woman you once loved. Who wouldn’t laugh?”
― Pascha Sotolongo, The Only Sound Is the Wind: Stories

“With you, every day is a dance under the stars.”
― Rendi Ansyah, Beyond the Bouquet: A Symphony of Love in Fifty Movements

“You are who you are, and you like what you like," he replied, and there was no sarcasm in his voice. "You are you, and that's a lovey person to be.”
― Ashley Poston, The Seven Year Slip

“Star reached up and snapped an apple twig from the bough above them. It was laden with small white buds not yet blossomed. "Watch." She cupped it in her strong-knuckled hands. Before Georgia's eyes, the buds began to slowly open, their blooms unfurling into delicate white starbursts. Soon Star was holding a branch laden with fragrant white blossoms in full bloom where a few seconds before there had been only tightly closed flowers.”
― Rachel Linden, Recipe for a Charmed Life

“There was a smell of mildew, and cat shit, and something wrong…”
― Chloe Turner, Witches Sail in Eggshells

“Life is not wonderful without surprise.”
― Dejun Xiao

“I landed on the roof of the hospital with a soft thud. The city was beautiful at night with all its lights on. Somewhere out there was Ryan, pacing the streets, hurt and angry, not understanding. I didn’t understand it, either. It was an abstract, somehow, a theory, this love. I loved everything. This city, my story, the Norns, Thor, Odin and the writer. I loved the einherjar, the battles, the books and my sisters. I loved it all to the point of my heart breaking. I loved it all for its beauty. So maybe I was capable of falling in love, after all. I was in love with the illusion. The stories intertwining underneath it all. In love with how it all came together to create an ongoing tale. In love with the fiction.”
― Louise H.A. Trankjær, The End of Immortality

“It’s funny,” Peter mused out loud. “With you, I feel like I am in this pocket in the world. As if nothing can reach us here. We have this little place to ourselves. When we are here, we are all there is. Just you and me, our little chosen world in the world with nothing to disturb us.”
I pulled the fleece blanket tighter to me. The fire had nearly died out and a chill crept into the air. I looked longingly at my clothes scattered on the floor and table but I was too lazy to reach for it. Peter turned his face and looked at me, as I lay nuzzled close with my head on his arm.
“Just a story,” I offered.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Just a story.”
― Louise H.A. Trankjær, The End of Immortality

“Even now, after all this time, I remember the heavy scent of smoke and mead in the air. I remember the glints from the hundreds of golden shields on the walls and the ceiling. I remember the look of pride in my father’s eyes looking across the einherjar. I remember the rush of voices when Thor came once in a while and walked through the hall, Mjolnir hanging from his belt and his wealth of red hair lighting up the gloom like another coal burner.
And this is my story. I, who have lived across time and space. I, who have jumped worlds and turned back on my choices. I, who gave up one identity for another. I understand now why I chose as I did. It wasn’t a random act or even an unknowing one. I had it all figured out all along. I knew where I was going and I chose every step of the way.
The most common mistake is asking: “Why? Why did this happen to me? Why is it this way? Why can’t it be otherwise?” The problem isn’t the why. The problem is that it is turned outwards. Instead, ask: Why did I choose this? The answer will always be: Because this is how I get my thrills. Always. It all comes down to how you want your story to be.”
― Louise H.A. Trankjær, The End of Immortality

“Bea's Bakery offered cure-alls in the form of pastries, chocolates, cookies, cakes, cupcakes, and specialty drinks. Everyone in Mystic Water depended on Beatrice O'Brien to soothe their pains, give wings to their hopes, and spark their passions. Bea's Bakery supported the town's needs like columns supported the Parthenon. Her doors were always open, figuratively, no matter the time of day. Everyone knew they could call Beatrice after hours, and she would have exactly what they needed: a twilight brownie for stargazers, a tropical white chocolate tart for those needing a vacation, or a peppermint dark chocolate cookie for settling an uneasy heart.”
― Jennifer Moorman, The Baker's Man

“When people ate what Anna O'Brien baked, they smiled wider, laughed louder, and left the bakery she'd inherited with more confidence than when they arrived. Her chocolate chip cookies made Jordan Hillman propose to Julie Farmer on their fourth date. Her OREO brownies caused Roger Jackson to think he could dance the Charleston like he had in the '40's. One sip of her Saturday morning hot chocolate made everyone a good neighbor. People in town swore Anna could make anything better than the original, and they were right. It was a skill she'd been honing since she was big enough to stand on a step stool and help her grandma in the kitchen.
While most children spent their after-school time watching cartoons and their summers flying kites and playing pickup games of baseball, Anna spent almost all her free time helping at Bea's Bakery. Anna had a superior sense for knowing how to combine ingredients and flavors into delicious creations. She also had an unusually strong sense of smell, which gave her an incredible advantage for pairing ingredients in a way that enhanced the eating experience. Each treat she made engaged the eyes, the nose, the tongue, and every pleasing nerve in the body.”
― Jennifer Moorman, The Baker's Man

“JOSEPH O'BRIEN

Notes on the basics: Flour, sugar. Only the best ingredients. Quarter to half cup of confectioners' sugar to make him just sweet enough, but not too much. Salt to complement the sweet. A good balance is essential. High-quality yeast. Vanilla extract because it goes well with just about everything. Royal icing to make him stick and never wander away. A pinch here and there of favorite herbs or spices (basil, oregano, anise, cinnamon, turmeric). Warm water, not too hot or you'll create a scalded man, angry and hard to live with. High-quality olive oil for helping him move through life with ease, never getting stuck or losing pieces of himself. Knead the dough just long enough--- very important. Kneading too long will make him hard and unbendable, like a rock in the stomach. Kneading not long enough will make him soft--- too weak, too pliable, a moldable mess in anyone's hands. Not a good man. Creativity, dreams, love: crucial ingredients, always.”
― Jennifer Moorman, The Baker's Man

“What will make him good and wholesome and kind?" Anna asked aloud.
"Chocolate?" Lily said, finishing off the bottle of rum.
Anna dropped in a palmful of dark cocoa powder. She added the leaves from three sprigs of rosemary because it was her favorite herb and because its woodsy scent would hopefully make him a lover of the outdoors. If she was making the most absurd recipe ever, why not go big with her additions? So she added a pinch of cinnamon because the season called for it, and then she sprinkled in cumin to give him a spicy, smoky edge.
Anna added a cashew-size glob of purple royal icing to the mix to make him loyal, then poured in a teaspoon of vanilla extract. She dipped a tablespoon into the sparkling, golden sugar. When she leveled it with her finger, warmth spread up her arm until it reached her head, where it tugged her lips into a smile. She added the special ingredient and shoved her hand into the dough to incorporate everything. Rather than olive oil, Anna poured canola oil into the bowl because he needed to be able to withstand the heat and not break down when life became too hot or too complicated.”
― Jennifer Moorman, The Baker's Man

“Our family's gift is so old no one quite remembers when or how it all began. All I can do is tell you what was told to me by my mother when I was sixteen--- a story, I'm sure, that was told to her by her mother when she became of age.
Our family is the keeper of an enchanted substance. To me, it is like sugar. Others have called it powder, sand, and even fairy dust. No matter what you call it, its power doesn't change, and the power it contains must be protected and respected. Our family's gift has the power to create. "Create what?" you might ask. Anything the pure heart desires.
Our family has always had cooks, bakers, and medicine women. These professions are the perfect vehicle for using the substance, and this special gift chooses the next person in the family who will guard it. Once in a lifetime, the keeper of the gift is allowed to use it. There are no rules other than this--- it can only be used once by the keeper. How and when the keepers use the gift is up to them.”
― Jennifer Moorman, The Baker's Man

“So sorry. I was trying to get to the greatest concentration of magical girls in one place, and I see I've ended up on stage. Let me make this quick: I need three magical girls to help me catch a terrorist. Peace out.”
― park seolyeon, A Magical Girl Retires

“And then, suddenly, when the sun is beginning to warm my face, I'm there. In the zone where everything is perfect, and I'm drawing. Fingers, hand and charcoal pencil, even thought, are one and what I am, what I see, or part of it, is skimming across the page, darker here, lighter on the left, a smudging—deliberate—and feathering with spit. While inside, the crimson glow is burning, that bubble I carry within me where I store everything that happens, good or bad, where I can think about it when I'm alone, at night or on the street, waiting for the chance for cash and an easy screw.
As the glow burns, it travels through my limbs, blood and bone, and into my head where something explodes like an electric shock, so I’m shivering, retching even as my hand still moves over paper, tasting vomit in my mouth but refusing to let it go, swallowing down the bitterness. And still I draw, sweat sticky on my forehead and under my arms, but the only part of me touching what I’m doing is my hand with its instrument for line and block and shadow. Nothing can harm me now.”
― Anne Brooke, A Dangerous Man

“Dance with what life has to hand you and you will always walk your intended path.”
― S.V. Wolf

“Both girls, through different routes, down different roads, had come home.”
― Seanan McGuire, Down Among the Sticks and Bones