This is not magic. This is the way the world is, only very few people take the time to stop and note it.
Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.
The circus looks abandoned and empty. But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.
I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.' 'But you built me dreams instead.
Most maidens are perfectly capable of rescuing themselves in my experience, at least the ones worth something, in any case.
The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. Within the black-and-white striped canvas tents is an utterly unique experience full of breathtaking amazements. It is called Le Cirque des Rêves, and it is only open at night.
People see what they wish to see. And in most cases, what they are told that they see.
You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.
Old stories have a habit of being told and retold and changed. Each subsequent storyteller puts his or her mark upon it. Whatever truth the story once had is buried in bias and embellishment. The reasons do not matter as much as the story itself.
I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held. Trying to control what cannot be controlled. I am tired of denying myself what I want for fear of breaking things I cannot fix. They will break no matter what we do.
Every once in awhile you find a novel so magical that there is no escaping its spell. The Night Circus is one of these rarities - engrossing, beautifully written and utterly enchanting. If you choose to read just one novel this year, this is it
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.
I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you.
Life takes us to unexpected places sometimes. The future is never set in stone, remember that.
The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.
You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul
I couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what I wanted to be real.
Is it not that bad to be trapped somewhere, then? Depending on where you're trapped?" "I suppose it depends on how much you like the place you're trapped in," Widget says. "And how much you like whoever you're stuck there with," Poppet adds, kicking his black boot with her white one.
The most difficult thing to read is time. Maybe because it changes so many things.
The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.
The circus arrives without warning.
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight.
But you built me dreams instead.
I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held.
And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister's story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.
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