classes ::: place, castle, The_Castle_of_Crossed_Destinies, chapter,
children :::
branches ::: the Castle

Instances, Classes, See Also, Object in Names
Definitions, . Quotes . - . Chapters .

object:the Castle

In the castle of the lotus twixt the brows
Whence it shoots the arrows of its sight and will ~ Sri Aurobindo,
Savitri, The Finding of the Soul [WI-SA

Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the
castle of one's own self.
~ Franz Kafka

object:2.08 - Three Tales of Madness and Destruction
class:The Castle of Crossed Destinies

Three Tales of Madness and Destruction
Now that we have seen these greasy pieces of cardboard become a museum of old masters, a theater of tragedy, a library of poems and novels, the silent brooding over down-to-earth words bound to come up along the way, following the arcane pictures, can attempt to soar higher, to peal forth winged words, perhaps heard in some theater balcony, where their resonance transforms moth-eaten sets on a creaking stage into palaces and battlefields.

In fact, the three who now started quarreling did so with solemn gestures as if declaiming, and while all three pointed to the same card, with their free hand and with evocative grimaces they exerted themselves to convey that those figures were to be interpreted this way and not that. Now in the card whose name varies according to custom and language-The Tower, The House of God, The House of the Devil-a young man carrying a sword, you would say for the purpose of scratching his flowing blond hair (now white), recognizes the platform before Elsinore castle when the night's blackness is rent by an apparition which freezes the sentinels in fear: the majestic march of a ghost whose grizzled beard and shining helmet and breastplate cause him to resemble both the tarots' Emperor and the late king of Denmark, who has returned to demand Justice. In such questionable shape, the cards lend themselves to the young man's silent interrogation: "Why the sepulchre hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws that thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, revisit'st thus the glimpses of The Moon?"
He is interrupted by a lady who, with distraught eye, insists she recognizes in that same Tower the castle of Dunsinane when the vengeance darkly prophesied by the witches will be unleashed: Birnam Wood will move, climbing the slopes of the hill, hosts and hosts of trees will advance, their roots torn from the earth, their boughs outstretched as in the Ten of Clubs, attacking the fortress, and the usurper will learn that Macduff, born through a sword's slash, is the one who, with a slash of the Sword, will cut off his head. And thus the sinister juxtaposition of cards finds a meaning: Popess, or prophesying sorceress; Moon, or night in which thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd, and the hedgepig whin'd, and newt, frog, and adders allow themselves to be caught for the broth; Wheel, or stirring of the bubbling cauldron where witches' mummy is dissolved with gall of goat, wool of bat, finger of birth-strangled babe, poisoned entrails, tails of shitting monkeys, just as the most senseless signs the witches mix in their brew sooner or later find a meaning that confirms them and reduces you, you and your logic, to a gruel.

But an old man's trembling finger is now pointed at the Arcanum of the Tower and the Thunderbolt. In his other hand he holds up the figure of the King of Cups, surely to make us recognize him, since no royal attributes remain on his derelict person: nothing in the world has been left him by his unnatural daughters (this is what he seems to say, pointing to two portraits of cruel, crowned ladies and then at the squalid landscape of the Moon), and now others want to usurp even this card from him, the proof of how he was driven from his palace, emptied from the walls like a can of rubbish, abandoned to the fury of the elements. Now he inhabits the storm and the rain and the wind as if he could have no other home, as if the world were allowed to contain only hail and thunder and tempest, just as his mind now houses only wind and thunderbolts and madness. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's molds, all chromosomes spill at once that make ungrateful man! We read this hurricane of thoughts in the eyes of the old sovereign seated in our midst, his bent shoulders huddled no longer in his ermine mantle but in a Hermit's habit, as if he were still wandering by lantern light over the heath without shelter, the Fool his only support and mirror of his madness.

Instead, for the young man ahead of him the Fool is merely the role he has set himself to play, the better to work out a revenge plot and to conceal his spirit, distraught by the revelation of the guilty deeds of his mother, Gertrude, and his uncle. If this is neurosis, there is a method in it, and in every method, neurosis. (We know this well, glued to our game of tarots.) It was the story of relations between the young and the old that he, Hamlet, had come to tell us: the more fragile youth feels itself in the face of age's authority, the more it is driven to form an extreme and absolute idea of itself, and the more it remains dominated by looming parental phantoms. The young arouse similar uneasiness in the old: they loom like ghosts, they wander around hanging their heads, digging up remorses the old had buried, scorning what the old believe their finest possession: experience. So let Hamlet play the fool, with his stockings ungartered and a book open under his nose: the ages of transition are subject to mental ailments. For that matter, his mother has surprised him (The Lover!) raving for Ophelia: the diagnosis is quickly made, we shall call it love-madness and thus all is explained. If anything, Ophelia, poor angel, will be the one who pays: the Arcanum that defines her is Temperance and already foretells her watery death.

Here is The Juggler to announce that a company of mountebanks or strolling players has arrived to perform at court: it is an opportunity to confront the guilty parties with their misdeeds. The play tells of an adulterous and murdering Empress: does Gertrude recognize herself? Claudius runs off, upset. From this moment on, Hamlet knows that his uncle spies on him from behind the curtains: a smart blow of the Sword against a moving arras would be enough to fell the king. How now! A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! But no: it was not the king hidden there but (as the card called The Hermit reveals) old Polonius, nailed forever in his eavesdropping pose, poor spy who could cast very little light. You do nothing right, Hamlet: you have not appeased your father's shade and you have orphaned the maiden you loved. Your character meant you for abstract mental speculation: it is no accident that the Page of Coins portrays you absorbed in the contemplation of a circular drawing: perhaps the mandala, diagram of an ultraterrestrial harmony.

Even our less contemplative fellow guest, otherwise known as the Queen of Swords or Lady Macbeth, at the sight of The Hermit's card seems distraught: perhaps she sees there another ghostly apparition, the hooded shade of the butchered Banquo, advancing with difficulty along the corridors of the castle, to sit down uninvited at the place of honor at the banquet, shaking his gory locks into the soup. Or else she recognizes her husband in person, Macbeth, who has murdered sleep: by the lantern's glow in the night he visits the guests' rooms, hesitating like a mosquito who dislikes staining the pillowcases. My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white!, his wife taunts and drives him, but this does not mean she is so much worse than he: they have shared the roles like a devoted couple, marriage is the encounter of two egoisms that grind each other reciprocally and from which spread the cracks in the foundations of civilized society, the pillars of public welfare stand on the viper's eggshells of private barbarity.

And yet we have seen that in The Hermit, with far more verisimilitude, King Lear has recognized himself, outcast and mad, roaming in search of the angelic Cordelia (there, Temperance is another lost card, and it is all his fault, this time), the daughter he failed to understand and unjustly drove out while lending credence to the lying treachery of Regan and Goneril. With daughters, whatever a father does is wrong: authoritarian or permissive, parents can never expect to be thanked. The generations stare at each other grimly, they speak only to misunderstand each other, to trade blame for growing up unhappy and dying disappointed.

Where has Cordelia got to? Perhaps without any other refuge or clothes to cover herself, she has fled to these deserted heaths, drinking water from the ditches, and as to Saint Mary the Egyptian, the birds bring her grains of millet for her nourishment. This then could be the meaning of the Arcanum The Star, in which Lady Macbeth, on the contrary, recognizes herself, sleepwalking, getting up naked at night with her eyes closed but gazing at spots of blood on her hands, as she toils to wash them, in vain. It takes more than that! Here's the smell of blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Hamlet opposes this interpretation. In his tale he has reached the point (the Arcanum The World) where Ophelia loses her mind, burbles nonsense and jingles, wanders through the fields girt with garlands-crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples that liberal shepherds give a grosser name, but our cold maids do call dear departed's member-and to continue his story he needs that very card, Arcanum Seventeen, in which Ophelia is seen on the bank of a stream, bent toward the glassy and sticky current that in an instant will drown her, staining her hair a moldy green.

Hidden among the graves of the cemetery, Hamlet thinks about Death, holding up the jawless skull of Yorick the jester. (This, then, is the roundish object the Page of Coins has in his hand!) Where the professional Fool is dead, the destructive folly that was reflected in him and found its release through ritual formulas becomes mingled with the language and actions of princes and subjects, unprotected even against themselves. Hamlet already knows that wherever he turns, he collects miscreants; do they believe him incapable of killing? Why, that is the only thing he succeeds in doing! The trouble is that he always strikes mistaken targets: when you kill, you always kill the wrong man.

Two Swords are crossed in a duel: they seem identical, but one is sharp, the other dull, one is poisoned, the other aseptic. However things go, the young are always the first to cut out one another's guts; Laertes and Hamlet, whom a kinder fate would have seen brothers-in-law, are now reciprocal murderer and victim. In the Cup King Claudius has thrown a pearl which is a poison-tablet for his nephew: "Gertrude, do not drink!" But the Queen is thirsty. It is too late! Too late, Hamlet's sword runs the king through, the fifth act is already ending.

For all three tragedies the advance of a victorious king's Chariot of war marks the fall of the curtain. Fortinbras of Norway lands on the pale Baltic island, the palace is silent, the warrior enters among the marble walls: why, it is a morgue! There lying dead is the entire royal family of Denmark! O proud, snobbish Death! What feast is toward in thine eternal cell that thou so many princes at a shot so bloodily hast struck, leafing through the Almanach de Gotha with thy scythe-paper-knife?
No, it is not Fortinbras: it is the King of France, Cordelia's husband, who has crossed the channel to support Lear and is closely besieging the army of Gloucester's Bastard, contended by the two rival and perverse queens, but he will not be in time to free the mad king and his daughter from their cage, shut up there to sing like birds and laugh at gilded butterflies. For the first time there is a bit of peace in the family: if the murderer would delay only a few minutes. But instead he is punctual, hangs Cordelia, and is killed by Lear, who cries: Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life and thou no breath at all? And Kent, faithful Kent, can only wish for him: Break, heart, I prithee, break!
Unless it is neither the King of Norway nor the King of France, but the legitimate heir of the throne of Scotland usurped by Macbeth. His chariot advances at the head of the English army, and finally Macbeth is forced to say: I 'gin to be aweary of The Sun, and wish the syntax o' The World were now undone, that the playing cards were shuffled, the folios' pages, the mirror-shards of the disaster.

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1.01 - Description of the Castle
1.01 - The Castle
the Castle
the Castle in the Sky
The Castle of Crossed Destinies
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--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [3 / 3 - 500 / 575] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   1 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Shadowgate
   1 Franz Kafka


   48 J K Rowling
   13 Bram Stoker
   10 Yaa Gyasi
   10 Anonymous
   9 Michael J Sullivan
   9 Liz Braswell
   8 Terry Pratchett
   8 Jen Turano
   7 Shana Abe
   7 C S Lewis
   6 Jen Calonita
   4 Sherwood Smith
   4 Paulo Coelho
   4 Mervyn Peake
   4 Melanie Dickerson
   4 Mehmet Murat ildan
   4 Mark Twain
   4 Lisa Kleypas
   4 John Flanagan
   4 Jack Gilbert
   3 Serena Valentino
   3 Sarah Rees Brennan
   3 Peter S Beagle
   3 Miyuki Miyabe
   3 Merrie Haskell
   3 Jeanette Winterson
   3 Jane Yolen
   3 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
   3 Eugene Field
   3 Elizabeth Gilbert
   3 Dorothy Dunnett
   3 Chris Colfer
   3 Charles Dickens
   3 Anne Lamott
   2 Wayne LaPierre
   2 Victoria Roberts
   2 Tom Stoppard
   2 Tim Pat Coogan
   2 Teresa of vila
   2 Suzanne Selfors
   2 Susanna Clarke
   2 Stephen King
   2 Sherry Thomas
   2 Shannon Hale
   2 Richelle Mead
   2 Richard Siken
   2 Philippa Gregory
   2 Peter Enns
   2 Patricia C Wrede
   2 Neal Stephenson
   2 Matt Haig
   2 Mark Lawrence
   2 Magda Alexander
   2 Kresley Cole
   2 Kenya Wright
   2 Kate DiCamillo
   2 Karen Marie Moning
   2 John Steinbeck
   2 Joan Aiken
   2 Jacob Grimm
   2 Ilona Andrews
   2 Iain Banks
   2 Gloria E Anzald a
   2 Franz Kafka
   2 Erik Larson
   2 Emma Donoghue
   2 Ella Wheeler Wilcox
   2 Elizabeth Vaughan
   2 Edgar Albert Guest
   2 Diana Wynne Jones
   2 Colin Wilson
   2 Cecelia Ahern
   2 Cary Elwes
   2 Bella Forrest
   2 Anthony Doerr
   2 Angie Sage
   2 Angela Carter
   2 A G Howard

1:Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one's own self. ~ Franz Kafka,
2:In the castle of the lotus twixt the browsWhence it shoots the arrows of its sight and will ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri 07.05 - The Finding of the Soul,
3:The last thing that you remember is standing before the wizard Lakmir as he gestured wildly and chanted in an archaic tongue. Now you find yourself staring at an entryway which lies at the edge of a forest. The Druid's words still ring in your ears: "Within the walls of the Castle Shadowgate lies your quest. If the prophecies hold true, the dreaded Warlock Lord will use his dark magic to raise the Behemoth, the deadliest of the Titans, from the depths of the earth. You are the seed of prophecy, the last of the line of kings, and only you can stop the Warlock Lord from darkening our world FOREVER. Fare thee well. ~ Shadowgate,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Have fun storming the castle! ~ William Goldman,
2:Yonder lies the castle of my father. —TONY CURTIS (ATTRIB.), ~ Clive James,
3:We admire the castles, because we admire the security! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
4:I had reached up and pulled the castle of dreams down around him. ~ Susan Kay,
5:Heath lost an argument with a porcupine in the castle gardens. ~ Elizabeth Vaughan,
6:No castle can protect you, no castle but the Castle of Reason! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
7:It would mean that the castle is not yet generating enough eroto-energy. ~ Angela Carter,
8:You think the queen of the castle is going to let me in the ivory tower? ~ Jay Crownover,
9:October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. ~ J K Rowling,
10:You can take a Lady out of the castle, but not the castle out of the Lady. ~ Catherine Bybee,
11:You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, ~ Bram Stoker,
12:If you want to get to the castle, Groceries, you've got to swim the moat. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
13:Furlough took him on a tour of the castle to demonstrate the art of scurrying. ~ Kate DiCamillo,
14:All around the castle, a briary hedge began to grow, with thorns as sharp as barbs. ~ Jane Yolen,
15:But I’d like to see the castles in the towns where they live,” the boy explained. ~ Paulo Coelho,
16:If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. ~ Anne Lamott,
17:Many a book is like a key to unknown chambers within the castle of one’s own self. ~ Franz Kafka,
18:Snow White sucks the blood la ola lala" He sang, throwing bear can at the castle. ~ Cameron Jace,
19:The castle was round and about them, widespread and as unchartable as a dark day. ~ Mervyn Peake,
20:Love is the castle, doubt is the moat, desire is the paddle and hope is the boat. ~ Kellie Elmore,
21:Saint George and the Dragon!-Bonny Saint George for Merry England!-The castle is won! ~ Walter Scott,
22:At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. ~ J K Rowling,
23:She stared at the castle. She had actually been summoned to a castle. A week before Christmas. ~ Fern Michaels,
24:Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the Count enter there Undead. ~ Bram Stoker,
25:Mind you, Princess Cassandra used to stalk us when she sneaked out of the castle as a girl. ~ John Flanagan,
26:If you wanted to explore the castle forever and ever, you’d need to get hold of the Philosopher’s Stone. ~ J K Rowling,
27:You said you were the King of the Castle – and you’re not, not by any means! But that’s the Dirty Rascal. ~ P L Travers,
28:The road to the Castle is paved with anonymous letters, deriving from the besetting Irish sin, jealousy. ~ Tim Pat Coogan,
29:Fang! Angel?" i yelled, not even trying for stealth. i was storming the castle, not stealing the jewels. ~ James Patterson,
30:I’d live anywhere, - in one room, in the castle ruin right now – if it meant we could all just be together. ~ Cecelia Ahern,
31:Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true and we could live in them? ~ Louisa May Alcott,
32:Norwich is a very fine city, and the castle, which stands in the middle of it, on a hill, is truly majestic. ~ William Cobbett,
33:A real island where there had once been real towns, where there stood a real castle—the castle where he was born. ~ Andrew Peterson,
34:Since moving to the Castle, she'd discovered that only the white men talked of "black magic." As though magic had a color. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
35:You know what I did after I wrote my first novel? I shut up and wrote twenty-three more."

("The Castle") ~ Michael Connelly,
36:Old Friend The Witch and the Werecat Of Reading and Plots Thieves in the Castle A Costly Mistake Vision of Perfection ~ Christopher Paolini,
37:She's just a friend. Four words that could possibly kill any woman, but they made me smile... And the castle was my witness. ~ Cecelia Ahern,
38:Every other guest has left the castle, Harry. Why haven’t you?” “I am here to be your conscience, Adam. To save you from yourself. ~ Sarah M Eden,
39:The world had ended, so why had the battle not ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? ~ J K Rowling,
40:Don't live in the castles; freedom is in the fields! But I can also say: Don't live in the fields; security is in the castles! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
41:Manners!" he said. "Why, it is merely the truth, and truth is good manners; manners are a fiction. The castle is done. Do you like it? ~ Mark Twain,
42:The castle’s predecessor, the Roman villa, had been unfortified, depending on Roman law and the Roman legions for its ramparts. ~ Barbara W Tuchman,
43:That'd be a cheerful visit, said Ron. Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately? ~ J K Rowling,
44:That’d be a cheerful visit,’ said Ron. ‘Hello, Hagrid, tell us,have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately? ~ J K Rowling,
45:That'd be a cheerful visit," said Ron. "Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately? ~ J K Rowling,
46:That's silly, the people in prison are thieves and murderers.'
'So are the ones in the castle. How else do you get to own a castle? ~ Malcolm Pryce,
47:Lie down there in the shade and sleep, and I will soon build the castle for you. If it would be a pleasure to you, you can live in it yourself. ~ Jacob Grimm,
48:It was unnerving, to think she was being psychoanalyzed by someone who frequently complained that the castle walls had started bleeding again. ~ Marissa Meyer,
49:Before the castle gate all was as the fox had said: so the son went in and found the chamber where the golden bird hung in a wooden cage, and below ~ Jacob Grimm,
50:You soon learn there’s no elegance or dignity in death if you spend time in the castle kitchens. You learn how ugly it is, and how good it tastes. ~ Mark Lawrence,
51:unoccupied space will never cease to change simply because nothing forbids it to do so. ========== We Have Always Lived in the Castle (Shirley Jackson) ~ Anonymous,
52:He bought her a pretty music box with a picture of the castle in winter painted on the lid, and she slept on his shoulder on the train ride home. ~ Michael Schmicker,
53:The danger isn't that Big Brother may storm the castle gates. The danger is that Americans don't realize that he is already inside the castle walls. ~ Wayne LaPierre,
54:If only a horrible storm can demolish the castle of the devil, then let the storm be victorious! It is not uncommon that heaven comes after hell! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
55:Half of the castle has, at one point or another, been burned down by a combination of Barbary corsairs, lightning bolts, Napoleon, and smoking in bed. ~ Neal Stephenson,
56:wished she had been around the castle the last few days, because he knew she would have found playing with the new vampire weapon prototypes entertaining. ~ Tenaya Jayne,
57:Great. So if a dragon and a fairy show up at the castle, what the hell am I supposed to do with that information? Put out a warrant for their arrest?" "No, ~ Daniel Suarez,
58:If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. ~ Anne Lamott,
59:Lord Uthe once said I wouldn’t be the one at the head of the army, storming the castle. I’d be the engineer, tunneling beneath to bring the whole thing crashing down. ~ Anonymous,
60:Every time I stumbled and fell, something in me hardened, became worse.
By the time I reached the castle gates; I think I was not Lestat. I was someone else altogether. ~ Anne Rice,
61:Temptations are enemies outside the castle seeking entrance. If there be no false retainer within who holds treacherous parley, there can scarcely be even an offer. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,
62:to the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly enough. They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t been ~ J K Rowling,
63:By the time Brand Appleton reached the castle grounds, he had acquired a significant crowd. Never in the history of Toll had one man needed so many people to arrest him. ~ Frances Hardinge,
64:everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner! ~ Bram Stoker,
65:Ed said, "I can tell you, when we heard that baby was going to be all right, there wasn't a dry seat in the castle."

"I'm so happy to hear that," Marigold sold. "I think. ~ Jean Ferris,
66:Kafka’s The Castle came to mind, a book I had not read but that fell into that category of literature that culture reads on your behalf and deposits somewhere inside you. ~ Patrick McGuinness,
67:There were grade-schoolers in Texas who could recite the Castle Doctrine, the state’s “stand your ground” law, as easily as the pledge of allegiance. Mack’s was a textbook case. ~ Attica Locke,
68:Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. ~ Jack Gilbert,
69:Children make prayers so thoughtlessly, building them up like sand castles—and they are always surprised when suddenly the castle becomes real, and the iron gate grinds shut. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
70:... No, the office is one thing, and private life is another. When I go into the office, I leave the Castle behind me, and when I come into the Castle, I leave the office behind me. ~ Charles Dickens,
71:Julisse and Arielle. The two remaining sisters of Rhys. I’d heard talk around the castle that they were two of the most formidable female witches of our time, but I’d never met them before. ~ Bella Forrest,
72:Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
73:You're in Ireland the summer after you left college and you're drinking at a pub near the castle where every day bus loads of English and American tourists come to kiss the Blarney Stone. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
74:He apparently intends to pass the castle on to his eldest daughter.'
'His daughter?' This was news to Pagan.
Colin shrugged. 'They're Scots,' he said, as if that would explain it all. ~ Glynnis Campbell,
75:Thus the castle of each feudal chieftain became a school of chivalry, into which any noble youth, whose parents were from poverty unable to educate him to the art of war, was readily received. ~ Horatio Alger,
76:Dear friend, You are not a freak. You are wanted. You are necessary. You are the only you there is. Don’t be afraid to leave the castle. It’s a great big world out there. Love, a fellow reader ~ Jennifer Niven,
77:Doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner! ~ Bram Stoker,
78:It was a troubled night, the last they spent in the castle. Not many slept. But the lord of it had long understood that what could cease to be his never had been his, and slept like a child. ~ George MacDonald,
79:Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. ~ J K Rowling,
80:From its place of concealment the Grail still calls seekers to the quest and knights still set out upon the way to the castle that is difficult to find, where the treasure is preserved. ~ Marie Louise von Franz,
81:The castle will seem very quiet and strange without you here. The stone stairs and the chapel will miss your footstep, the gateway will will miss your laughter, and the wall will miss your shadow. ~ Philippa Gregory,
82:When writing down a plan, I suggest numbering the steps. But just in case your plan falls into enemy hands, make sure you number them in the wrong order." - The Hero's Guide to Storming the Castle ~ Christopher Healy,
83:Flaevynn wants only to take Treoir so she can bathe in the pool of immortality that runs beneath the castle.” – Cathbad
“Can she swim? Maybe she’ll drown before the immortality kicks in.” – Kizira ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
84:Now and then they would tell old legends and fairy tales about the castle, the way people always do about old castles. But they would be just that: fairy tales.

Nothing more, and nothing less. ~ Mechthild Gl ser,
85:Belle, so brave and noble—willing to take her father’s place as a prisoner in the castle dungeon. What sort of woman would do that—give up her life so easily, sacrificing her freedom for her father’s? ~ Serena Valentino,
86:I was shortly again at the castle, and the Princess gave me her hand to kiss and then brought her children, the young princes and princesses, and we played together, as if we had known each other for years. ~ Max Muller,
87:After about half an hour, the front doors to the castle creaked open. I looked down and watched as a lone figure stepped out onto the icy entrance steps and sat down. Breathing heavily. Head in his hands. ~ Bella Forrest,
88:Copyin’ lines! What good’s that ter anyone? Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!” Malfoy didn’t move. ~ J K Rowling,
89:Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione. Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don’t want Harry dead. But I won’t deny that I am a werewolf. ~ J K Rowling,
90:Star and Ariel looked at each other, aghast. The coven was about to burn two kids from the Castle. What would the Queen have to say about that? It would be goodbye to their free food at Wizard Sandwiches for sure. ~ Angie Sage,
91:And as the years flowed by, some villagers told travelers of a beast and a beauty who lived in the castle and could be seen walking on the battlements, and others told of two beauties, and others, of two beasts. ~ Emma Donoghue,
92:The big knight fell heavily to the ground, and lay there, as nearly dead as possible. His servants came running from the castle and took him in. He got better in the end, but nobody cared much about that. ~ Roger Lancelyn Green,
93:The year since then had been peaceful and prosperous, and in some ways the mood was lighter in the castle with Josh and Poppy installed as King and Queen in place of Quentin and Julia, Fillory’s brooders-in-chief. ~ Lev Grossman,
94:What will we do first?” Tabitha asked her. They were soaring high above the castle, descending in lazy loops as Tabitha slid from one warm updraft to another. Tabitha’s starlings glided around them like a halo. ~ Austin J Bailey,
95:1) Everyone nodded in silent agreement,
and then one by one
disappeared into the castle’s dark shadows
where night met blackened air
and creepy things
whispered the most haunting words into the wind. ~ Kenya Wright,
96:They poured out the lower doors and windows of the castle, howling to the skies. They evolved into a kind of cohesive moving liquid, flowing down the hillside as one silvered blob, like mercury on a scientist’s palm. ~ Gail Carriger,
97:When Myst had been in a Horde prison, the Forbearer rebels took the castle, and one of their generals had freed her to make love to her. Before the Valkyrie could rescue her, things had gotten out of hand in a dank cell. ~ Kresley Cole,
98:And all along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Harry knew that their fellows throughout the castle had done the same. ~ J K Rowling,
99:The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze: June had arrived. ~ J K Rowling,
100:We dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she is protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of Evil. All we can do is carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch and leave her there. ~ L Frank Baum,
101:The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III., which, though they were grand days for the construction of the constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. ~ Anthony Trollope,
102:No man knows where the Castle of King Death is. All men and women, boys and girls, and even little wee children should so live that when they have to enter the Castle and see the grim King, they may not fear to behold his face. ~ Bram Stoker,
103:own personal screening process as well.  Every person that entered the Castle was a candidate to fight in the coming war against Simon Sterling.   Three times a week Howard met in the conference room with Richard Dupree, ~ Richard Stephenson,
104:With anger simmering beneath his skin like it hadn't in two and a half years, Vitor went to the drawing room. He was not a murderer, but if any other man in the castle touched her, he might very well become one.

-Vitor ~ Katharine Ashe,
105:Annoyed?” said Sophie. “Why should I be annoyed? Someone only filled the castle with rotten aspic, and deafened everyone in Porthaven, and scared Calcifer to a cinder, and broke a few hundred hearts. Why should that annoy me? ~ Diana Wynne Jones,
106:This is not a Scooby-Doo episode, Gus said.
Granted, our current adventure may lack the mastery and grace of classic stories like 'Hassle in the Castle' or 'Foul Play in Funland', Shawn said. But as I've always said, aim high. ~ William Rabkin,
107:Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child you have stolen, for my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom as great. You have no power over me! ~ Jim Henson,
108:We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. The writer's job is to turn the unspeakable into words - not just into any words, but if we can, into rhythm and blues. ~ Anne Lamott,
109:The Encyclopedia Qwghlmiana had made much use of the definite article—the Town, the Castle, the Hotel, the Pub, the Pier. Waterhouse stops in at the Shithouse to deal with some aftershocks of the sea voyage, and then walks up the Street ~ Neal Stephenson,
110:in the water is a woman of such beauty that her skin is paler than the white marble and her hair is darker than the night skies. He falls in love with her at once, and she with him, and he takes her to the castle and makes her his wife. ~ Philippa Gregory,
111:I saw at once that I had only to rise in my machine, fix my eyes upon the castle, fly over it and speed directly across to the French coast. It seemed so easy that it looked like a cross-country flight. I am glad I thought so and felt so. ~ Harriet Quimby,
112:We Have Always Lived in the Castle (Shirley Jackson) - Your Highlight on page 19 | Location 284-284 | Added on Saturday, January 24, 2015 3:56:38 AM I hated them anyway, and wondered why it had been worth while creating them in the first place. ~ Anonymous,
113:Since God has given it such great dignity, permitting it to wander at will through the rooms of the castle, from the lowest to the highest. Let it not force itself to remain for very long in the same mansion, even the one of self-knowledge. ~ Teresa of vila,
114:.... Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head. And shouts ascend on high .....'' Long live Scanderbeg. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
115:And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; and may the evening's twilight find me gentle still. ~ Max Ehrmann,
116:So I nodded, which Fred took as an indication to continue. “Everything in the theater and the army was in chaos. Iraq exploded in violence. I was the deputy commandant at the Castle, and got overnight orders to proceed to Iraq on the next flight. ~ Brian Haig,
117:While hope was a much-needed commodity around the castle, what he was doing went beyond good leadership – it was a blatant disregard of the reality. There are limits to faith, and he shamelessly crossed them and never looked over his shoulder. ~ Terry Mancour,
118:Meanwhile the castle rolled. Great walls collapsed, one into another.

The colours of the tracts were horrible. The vilest green. The most hideous purple. Here the foul shimmering of rotting fungi – there a tract of books alive with mice. ~ Mervyn Peake,
119:The next morning dawned cool and clear. The early mist had lifted, leaving a thick layer of dew clinging to the hillsides beyond the castle, shimmering in the morning sun like faerie dust sprinkled over a lush bed of emerald.
Like his eyes. ~ Monica McCarty,
120:The original fairy tale was about the youngest sister going into a room in the castle and finding all the bodies of the wives that came before her - she is confronted with truth, thinking about how often we think we know people and we really don't. ~ Alice Hoffman,
121:Mr. Tall, blond and delicious?” She’s a huge fan of Gabriel’s. Maybe it’s because he kissed her hand, or because he showed her nothing but courtesy during that weekend in the castle. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she knows I’m in love with him. ~ Magda Alexander,
122:I stand and brush the tears from my eyes. The hen is gone, and the harp that was my mother’s, and all of our gold; my husband is gone, too. The castle I shared with him is an empty shell now, robbed of everything that mattered—but I have one last use for ~ Marie Brennan,
123:Merlin’s beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. “How did you get out of the castle?” “I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,” said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl. ~ J K Rowling,
124:With characteristic exuberance Tom named this curiously constructed
house Castel des Tours saunz Nowmbre, which means the Castle of
Innumerable Towers. David Montefiore had counted the innumerable
towers in 1764. There were fourteen of them. ~ Susanna Clarke,
125:Kami closed her latest book with a slam. She did not know why the townspeople had not risen up against the Lynburns years ago, frankly. Whatever happened to the folksy and charming tradition of storming the castle with burning torches and pitchforks? ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,
126:The clouds behind the castle darkened and rolled, embracing the mountain and the white towers. And as the princess became more animated, the clouds rolled faster and faster. They twisted and deepened in color until a deafening crack sliced through the air. ~ Brittney Joy,
127:Merlin’s beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. “How did you get out of the castle?”
“I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,” said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl. ~ J K Rowling,
128:And now, Your Majesty," said Strange, "I think it is time we returned to the Castle. You and I, Your Majesty, are a British King and a British magician. Though Great Britain may desert us, we have no right to desert Great Britain. She may have need of us yet. ~ Susanna Clarke,
129:But the boy was there, and he was looking at her. That was when Yorda understood what was drawing out her memories of the castle into the boy. It was him. He wanted to know its dark past. He wanted to know everything. No one could stop this. Not even the queen. ~ Miyuki Miyabe,
130:Give me the child. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great.
You have no power over me ~ A C H Smith,
131:Above the plains up on the hill there stood a castle bold

A gleaming palace made of white, a pillar to behold

The horsemen lived in service to the castle and the crown

But the knights rose up and killed the kings

And it all burned down. ~ Ally Carter,
132:Twelve pillars of the castle of time will bear. Twelve creatures rule land and sea. The eagle is ready to soar in the air, Five's the foundation and also the key. In the Circle of Twelve, Number Twelve becomes Two. The hawk hatches seventh, yet Three is the clue. ~ Kerstin Gier,
133:When she wanted to forget the Castle, she thought of these things, but she did not expect joy. Hell was a place of remembering, each beautiful moment passed through the mind's eye until it fell to the ground like a rotten mango, perfectly useless, uselessly perfect. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
134:When she wanted to forget the Castle, she thought of these things, but she did not expect joy. Hell was a place of remembering, each beautiful moment passed through the mind’s eye until it fell to the ground like a rotten mango, perfectly useless, uselessly perfect. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
135:You expect me to believe that you're being held against your will?" I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're roaming around the castle freely." "As are you." He turned away from me then. "Not all prisons have bars. You should know that better than anyone, Princess. ~ Amanda Hocking,
136:The thoughts could easily paralyze her, and she needed to be sharp. She needed a plan. For now, it was easier to do something useful with her hands. Cleaning had kept her busy all those lonely years in the castle. It could keep her busy again for another few hours. ~ Jen Calonita,
137:This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. ~ J K Rowling,
138:The way to begin healing the wounds of the world is to treasure the Infant Christ in us; to be not the castle but the cradle of Christ; and, in rocking that cradle to the rhythm of love, to swing the whole world back into the beat of the Music of Eternal Life. ~ Caryll Houselander,
139:Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was. ~ George R R Martin,
140:All the next day the pleasure of his success lingers in Werner's blood, the memory of how it seemed almost holy to him to walk beside big Volkheimer back to the castle, down through the frozen trees, past the rooms of sleeping boys ranked like gold bars in strongrooms... ~ Anthony Doerr,
141:How do you curb envy? First, stop comparing yourself to others. Second, find your “circle of competence” and fill it on your own. Create a niche where you are the best. It doesn’t matter how small your area of mastery is. The main thing is that you are king of the castle. ~ Rolf Dobelli,
142:She walked to where he stood, where the fire met the water. He took her hand and they both looked out into the abyss of it. The fear that Marcus had felt inside the Castle was still there, but he knew it was like the fire, a wild thing that could still be controlled, contained. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
143:I’m not Prince Charming. I’m the bad guy that sneaks into the castle when Prince Charming is off singing songs in the woods. I’m the one with the big cock that bends needy Cinderella over. And I’m the one that makes her scream until her throat’s raw and she can’t sing a note. ~ Kenya Wright,
144:Let me advise you, my dear young friend-- nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. ~ Bram Stoker,
145:The castle? The monster? The man of learning? I only just thought of it. Surely you know that just as the momentous events of the past cast their shadows down the ages, so now, when the sun is drawing toward the dark,our own shadows race into the past to trouble mankind's dreams. ~ Gene Wolfe,
146:which was how he had survived the Dark Lord’s attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lord’s old followers thought Potter might be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot in the castle. ~ J K Rowling,
147:Yorda slid down the side of the throne platform and walked again toward Ico. She moved differently now. This was not the Yorda he had led through the castle by the hand, the Yorda who would wander aimlessly if he did not call out to her. This was the queen's double, her puppet. ~ Miyuki Miyabe,
148:The unfortunate Elizabeth Bathori was said to bathe in the blood of young girls in order to preserve her youth and beauty. Apparently more than 600 maidens went down the drain before anyone noticed something amiss at the castle. How very inobservant the neighbors must have been. ~ Robert Dunbar,
149:The church was simply the former chapel of the castle, fronting upon its grass-grown court, which, however, was of generous enough width to have given up its quaintest corner to a little graveyard. Here the very headstones themselves seemed to sleep, as they slanted into the grass. ~ Henry James,
150:I thought of my picture in the Castle. But what would future girls see when they looked at the photograph during their daily comings and goings, peering closely? Not the shade of my hair, rendered colorless. Not anything, really. Just a girl on a horse, like so many other girls. ~ Anton DiSclafani,
151:Lloyd George’s main interest seemed to lie in meeting the amazing escapologist ‘Mick’ as he always referred to him. He took a mischievous delight in the rage of ‘the Castle contingent’ at their inability to lay hands on Collins when the Archbishop could apparently see him at will. ~ Tim Pat Coogan,
152:In three weeks my betrothed is coming here, to the castle. But Rose, I can’t marry her. I tried to believe that I could love her, and I’m sure I could have had I not met you. But knowing you, Rose, loving you as I do, I can’t possibly marry someone else. So I came up with a plan. ~ Melanie Dickerson,
153:By all means," cried the bard, his eyes lighting up. "A Fflam to the rescue! Storm the castle! Carry it by assault! Batter down the gates!"
"There's not much of it left to storm," said Eilonwy.
"Oh?" said Fflewddur, with disappointment. "Very well, we shall do the best we can. ~ Lloyd Alexander,
154:A mist still lay all about the walls and floors, hovering like a last breath on the lips of all the sleepers. As he walked through the castle, he marveled at how many lay asleep: the good people, the not-so-good, the young people and the not-so-young, and not one of them stirring. Not one. ~ Jane Yolen,
155:Three months previously I had entered the Haunt alone, covered in blood that was not my own and swinging a stolen sword. By Brothers followed me in. Now I left the castle in the hands of another. I had wanted my uncle's blood. His crown I took because other men said I could not have it. ~ Mark Lawrence,
156:Well, he would share her, but only for a little while. When the ball was over, he would make sure she slept inside the castle tonight, with his sister Margaretha. In fact, he might just make sure she never left the castle. He didn’t intend for her to ever be without protection again. ~ Melanie Dickerson,
157:I wished I could read in their shrivelled faces and watery eyes, I wished I could hear in the bad French which came half through their pinched lips and half through their pointed noses, how the old ladies had got at least on to good terms with the uncanny beings which haunted the castle. ~ E T A Hoffmann,
158:Tour the castle (open from 9:30). Then consider catching one of the city bus tours for a one-hour loop (departing from a block below the castle at the Hub/Tolbooth Church; you could munch a sandwich from the top deck if you’re into multitasking). Back near the castle, take my self-guided Royal ~ Rick Steves,
159:Five houses?” Lothaire had sneered, cutting Trehan off. “You all live under one roof now. Mine. Because I’m the king of the castle.” Then his red eyes had grown vacant, and he’d begun muttering about “Lizvetta’s lingerie.”
Trehan had been … underwhelmed by the Enemy of Old’s attention span. ~ Kresley Cole,
160:The magical force that had sundered everything in the castle had occasionally made some very odd choices in its destruction—Sand found a hammer that had been broken only at the wooden handle and not any of the metal parts, and another hammer whose handle was whole while the metal was broken. ~ Merrie Haskell,
161:We want to make sure children aren't left without any books. We want to make sure our children have the books, that they have a place in the castle. We want to make sure that their mothers have affordable day care. We want to make sure we give the older people the care that they need. ~ Arnold Schwarzenegger,
162:Quey had wanted to cry, but the desire embarrassed him. He knew that he was one of the half-caste children of the Castle, and, like the other half-caste children, he could not fully claim half of himself, neither his father's whiteness or his mother's blackness. Neither England nor the Gold Coast. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
163:Kafka was a master at the gruesome task of picturing people who do not use their potentialities and therefore lose their sense of being persons. The chief character in The Trial and in The Castle has no name—he is identified only by an initial, a mute symbol of one’s lack of identity in one’s own right. ~ Rollo May,
164:The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine. ~ Lord Byron,
165:The world had ended, so why had the battle not ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? Harry's mind was in freefall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the impossiblity, because Fred Weasley could not be dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying - ~ J K Rowling,
166:The Karstarks traced their descent to Karlon Stark, a younger son of Winterfell who had put down a rebel lord a thousand years ago, and been granted lands for his valor. The castle he built had been named Karl’s Hold, but that soon became Karhold, and over the centuries the Karhold Starks had become Karstarks. ~ Anonymous,
167:Each man and woman is like a soldier sent by God to guard some part of the castle of the Universe. And some are in the ramparts and some far deep in the darkness of the walls. But each one must remain faithful to his post and must not go running about, else the castle is in danger from the assaults of Hell. ~ John Steinbeck,
168:Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down, cut the thorns thick around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzald a,
169:Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down, cut the thorns thick around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzaldua,
170:So," said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle, "is that clear? Any questions?"
"I've got a question, Oliver," said George, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us yesterday when we were awake? ~ J K Rowling,
171:She had read too many romantic novels of a dark and dreary bent to really be surprised—The Castle of Otranto was one of her favorite English reads. For all intents and purposes, she was the overwrought, terrified heroine wandering around a cursed castle at night, seeing things in the shadows, jumping at noises. Plus ~ Liz Braswell,
172:For Ethel, it was exactly as if one of the twisted beech trees behind the castle had knocked at her door one morning to ask for her hand in marriage. What could she say? Yes, she loved those little trees beneath which she used to build her dens, she loved them dearly...but would she have wanted to marry them? ~ Timoth e de Fombelle,
173:I told him of the queen's refusal to see me, and"- he hesitated, his cheeks coloring slightly- "about the beautiful maiden I met in the castle gardens."
"You did?" she asked, unsure why she was so taken with the fact that he'd mentioned her.
"Yes," Henri smiled shyly.
"Oh, brother," she heard Grumpy mumble. ~ Jen Calonita,
174:And now you have a small map of the princess's heart (hatred, sorrow, kindness, empathy), the heart that she carried down inside her as she went down the golden stairs and through the kitchen and, finally, just as the sky outside the castle began to lighten, down into the dark dungeon with the rat and the serving girl. ~ Kate DiCamillo,
175:Common sense was, in fact, the cornerstone of her existence. If she had been the princess in the fairytale who was forbidden to go into the one locked and secret room in the castle, then into that locked and secret room she would never ever have gone, and the happy ending would have happened for her years earlier than scheduled. ~ Anonymous,
176:The castle of Cair Paravel on its little hill towered up above them; before them were the sands, with rocks and little pools of salt water, and seaweed, and the smell of the sea and long miles of bluish-green waves breaking for ever and ever on the beach. And oh, the cry of the seagulls! Have you ever heard it? Can you remember? ~ C S Lewis,
177:The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione voiced the knottiest question of all in a hesitant voice.
“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?”
“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron, “ ‘Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately? ~ J K Rowling,
178:BILLY CRYSTAL It’s been one of the little jewels of my career. Very often, still to this day, in airports or movie theaters, people will walk by and go, “Have fun storming the castle!” Or the really cool ones will whisper to me, “Don’t go swimming for an hour, a good hour,” and then just walk away. Those are the really cool ones. ~ Cary Elwes,
179:If Frau Rasch, in the last and fullest days of her husband’s power in Brno, had idly—during a party, say; a musical recital at the castle—gazed into the core of the diamond that had come to her from Oskar Schindler, she would have seen reflected there the worst incubus from her own dreams and her Führer’s. An armed Marxist Jew. ~ Thomas Keneally,
180:The Castle. He’d seen this expression far too many times during their marriage. The Castle was Bryony drawing up the gates and retreating deep into the inner keep. And he’d always hated it. Marriage meant that you shared your goddamn castle. You didn’t leave your poor knight of a husband circling the walls trying to find a way in. ~ Sherry Thomas,
181:They come in search of new things, but when they leave they are basically the same people they were when they arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have blond hair, or dark skin, but basically they're the same as the people who live right here ~ Paulo Coelho,
182:From this height the sleeping city seems like a child's construction, a model which has refused to be constrained by imagination. The volcanic plug might be black Plasticine, the castle balanced solidly atop it a skewed rendition of crenellated building bricks. The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee-wrappers glued to lollipop sticks. ~ Ian Rankin,
183:Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not without: It was his own grief turned magically to song that echoed across the grounds and through the castle windows. ~ J K Rowling,
184:He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. How strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the harder, valiantly keeping him alive. But it would have to stop, and soon. Its beats were numbered. How many would there be time for, as he rose and walked through the castle for the last time, out into the grounds and into the forest? ~ J K Rowling,
185:I am the lady of the castle. My name is exile. My name is anguish. My name is longing. Far from the world on the windy crests of the mountain, I am kept in absolute seclusion, my time passes in an endless reverie, a perpetual swooning. I am both the Sleeping Beauty and the enchanted castle; the princess drowses in the castle of her flesh. ~ Angela Carter,
186:There are moments that change everything, mired in the mass of more ordinary time like insects caught in amber. Without them, life would be a tame, predictable thing. But with them, ah. With them, life does as it will, like lightning, like the wind that blows across the castle battlements, and none may stop it, and none may tell it “no”. ~ Seanan McGuire,
187:The first thing that Shaytan (Satan) will try to do is get you to stop praying. You know why? Because he has to kill the guard if he wants to penetrate the castle. Once the guard is gone, then Shaytan(satan) can open the floodgates for evil. And he has a lot of patience. He has done this to many people before so he’s experienced as well. ~ Nouman Ali Khan,
188:Probably lots of people have died in the castle,' Susannah was saying sleepily. 'Cats, too. Lots of cats. The whole courtyard is probably full of graves, and we walk over them all the time.'

'I think,' Layla said, quite seriously, 'that people and cats turn back to the earth after a while. So what you walk over is just earth, Susannah. ~ Eloisa James,
189:Nobody’s going to save you.
No one’s going to cut you down
cut the thorns around you.
No one’s going to storm
the castle walls nor
kiss awake your birth,
climb down your hair,
nor mount you
onto the white steed.

There is no one who
will feed the yearning.
Face it. You will have
to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzald a,
190:Of course, few of the conservative politicians—libertarians aside—who have pushed the extension of the castle doctrine would see the clear resonance with the argument for women’s reproductive rights that would naturally flow from such an idea. After all, at its ideological core, this doctrine is about male identity, male property, and male bodies. ~ Marc Lamont Hill,
191:Split the Castle open,
find me, find you.
We, two, felt sand,
wind, air.
One felt whip. Whipped,
Once shipped.
We, two, black.
Me, you.
One grew from
cocoa's soil, birthed from nut,
skin uncut, still bleeding.
We two, wade.
The waters seem different
but are same.
Our same. Sister skin.
Who knew? Not me. Not you ~ Yaa Gyasi,
192:The Castle—a man haunted by the feeling that he was losing himself or wandering into a strange country, farther than he had ever wandered before, a country so strange that not even the air had anything in common with his native air, where one might die of strangeness, and yet whose enchantment was such that one could only go on and lose oneself further… ~ Miles Harvey,
193:Since moving to the Castle, she’d discovered that only the white men talked of “black magic.” As though magic had a color. Effia had seen a traveling witch who carried a snake around her neck and shoulders. This woman had had a son. She’d sung lullabies to him at night and held his hands and kept him fed, same as anyone else. There was nothing dark about her. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
194:Doubt tears down the castle walls we have built, with the false security and permanence they give, and forces us outside to walk a lonely, trying, yet cleansing road. In those times, it definitely feels like God is against us, far away, or absent altogether. But what if the darkness is actually a moment of God’s presence that seems like absence, a gift of God ~ Peter Enns,
195:She reminds me of Rapunzel. You know, like in the fairytale. The only time she leaves that house is to take her mother to her few social activities, or to run errands for her."
No, Adam thought. That's not the only time she leaves.
He turned to look at her house, more curious than he wanted to be.
Rapunzel had been sneaking out of the castle. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,
196:The Castleteria was bustling with activity as students ate lunch. Hagatha, the lunch lady, was an expert at fixing meals for all sorts of palates and all sizes of stomachs. Porridge was always on the menu, as were curds and whey. The day's lunch special was cheeseburgers, grilled by dragon fire, with a helping of enormous green beans, provided by the giants. ~ Suzanne Selfors,
197:The door shut behind them all, and locked. The women stared at it, mesmerized, and observed across it the wavering shadow of an uncanny cloud. Behind the chamfered windows the sun was obscured by drifting wreaths of grey smoke, and the silence filled with the crackling of flames. The youngest surviving Crawford, in leaving, had deftly set fire to the castle. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
198:As to what good qualities there may be in our souls, or Who dwells within them, or how precious they are -- those are things which we seldom consider and so we trouble little about carefully preserving the soul's beauty. All our interest is centred in the rough setting of the diamond, and in the outer wall of the castle -- that is to say, in these bodies of ours. ~ Teresa of vila,
199: 1014
The Spirit Is The Conscious Ear
The Spirit is the Conscious Ear.
We actually Hear
When We inspect—that's audible—
That is admitted—Here—
For other Services—as Sound—
There hangs a smaller Ear
Outside the Castle—that Contain—
The other—only—Hear—
~ Emily Dickinson,
200:We've witnessed a fire sale of American liberties at bargain basement prices, in return for the false promise of more security... The America being designed right now won't resemble the America we've been defending... The danger isn't that Big Brother may storm the castle gates. The danger is that Americans don't realize that he is already inside the castle walls. ~ Wayne LaPierre,
201:October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. ~ J K Rowling,
202:And, most vivid of all, there was the dramatic epic of the rats - the scampering army of obscene vermin which had burst forth from the castle three months after the tragedy that doomed it to desertion - the lean, filthy, ravenous army which had swept all before it and devoured fowl, cats, dogs, hogs, sheep, and even two hapless human beings before its fury was spent. ~ H P Lovecraft,
203:In this prudent way every portion of the Castle Gorka hogs was utilized: the good cuts for the banquet, the tougher ones in Pani Danusia’s pierogi, the haslet in Anulka’s kielbasa. This good husbandry was symbolic of the rational way in which Poland had organized itself in the year 1646, when magnates, gentry and peasants were about as happy as they had ever been. ~ James A Michener,
204:Here, how did you get out of the castle?" said Granny.

"The esteemed Nanny Ogg assisted me," said the king. "I reasoned, if I am anchored to the stones of Lancre, then I can also go where the stones go. I am afraid I indulged in a little trickery to arrange matters. Currently I am haunting her apron."

"Not the first, either," said Granny, automatically. ~ Terry Pratchett,
205:Jeb frowns. “You didn’t give Ivory the chance to explain, did you? You went flying all over the castle half-naked to find me without letting her finish.”
I clench my jaw.
He turns me to face him. His face flushes with color and he looks strong and healthy again. His frown turns into a smile, those dimples a vision too lovely for words. “Classic Al.” ~ A G Howard,
206:Jimmy said, “Probably very little. If I had to guess, I’d say that he designed the castle, picked the location and period of history he wanted, then built this passage a few hundred years earlier. Why artificially age the place when it’s just as easy to let it age on its own?” Phillip was amazed. “All these years of time-travel experience, and that simply didn’t occur to me. ~ Scott Meyer,
207:A heavy wooden door waited at the end of the staircase, blocking all sound from beyond. Aurora stared at it. She had not walked through it in years, not since her father decided that even the rest of the castle was unsafe for her. It was longer than years now. Lifetimes. The door had marked the way out, the way to freedom, for her whole quiet little life. What was it now? ~ Rhiannon Thomas,
208:Husband,” she protested. “I can ride. I am not hurt.” “Yer gown is torn and bloodied and ye’ve added yet another bruise to yer pretty face. Do no’ tell me yer no’ hurt,” he said grimly, shifting her about before him until she was pressed snugly up against his groin. Satisfied with her position, he then gestured for the others to follow, and turned his horse toward the castle. ~ Lynsay Sands,
209:Merit is a work for the sake of which Christ gives rewards. But no such work is to be found, for Christ gives by promise. Just as if a prince should say to me, "Come to me in my castle, and I will give you a hundred florins." I do a work, certainly, in going to the castle, but the gift is not given me as the reward of my work in going, but because the prince promised it to me. ~ Martin Luther,
210:I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. ~ Bram Stoker,
211:I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. In ~ Bram Stoker,
212:However strong you may think yourself, you cannot enter the Mansions by your own efforts: God, the Lord of the Castle Himself, must admit you to them. He is a great Lover of humility. Once you have been shown how to enjoy this Castle, you will find rest in everything, even in the things which most try you, and you will cherish the returning to it which nobody can take from you.’27 ~ Padma Aon Prakasha,
213:My mother hums a haunting melody, one that I think she made up. She used to sing it to us when she was in her half-lucid state. A wordless tune that is both sad and nostalgic. It may have had words to it at one point because every time I hear it, it evokes a sunset over the ocean, an ancient castle, and a beautiful princess who throws herself off the castle walls into the pounding surf below. ~ Susan Ee,
214:Harry hurtled around a corner and found Fred and a small knot of students, including Lee Jordan and Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty plinth, whose statue had concealed a secret passageway. Their wands were drawn and they were listening at the concealed hole.
“Nice night for it!” Fred shouted as the castle quaked again, and Harry sprinted by, elated and terrified in equal measure. ~ J K Rowling,
215:Do you think they’ll keep us together?” Pyp wondered as they gorged themselves happily. Toad made a face. “I hope not. I’m sick of looking at those ears of yours.” “Ho,” said Pyp. “Listen to the crow call the raven black. You’re certain to be a ranger, Toad. They’ll want you as far from the castle as they can. If Mance Rayder attacks, lift your visor and show your face, and he’ll run off screaming. ~ Anonymous,
216:Vera and Moira are cuddled up on the couch, both in frilly, pink, little-girl nightgowns.

“Hey, Maddie, you want to watch Miss Lovey’s Luminous Leggings with us?” Vera asks.

Dear Lord, yes. Yes, I would love to do anything other than what I’m about to do.

“Sorry, I have plans. Remember?” I wink at her.

“Right, right, right. Have fun storming the castle!” She waves. ~ Leah Rae Miller,
217:Harry took the map and grinned.
"You told me Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs would've wanted to lure me out of school... you said they'd have thought it was funny."
"And so we would have done," said Lupin, now reaching down to close his case. "I have no hesitation in saying that James would have been highly disappointed if his son had never found any of the secret passages out of the castle. ~ J K Rowling,
218:What I love in a woman is not what she is in and for herself, but the side of herself she turns towards me, what she is for me. I love her as character in our common love story. what wuld Hamlet be without the castle at Elsinore, without Ophelia, without all the concrete situations he goes through, what would he be without the text of his part? What would be left but an empty, dumb, illusory essence? ~ Milan Kundera,
219:What are you grinning at?' Nal muttered. As if in response, the gull spread its wings and opened its shadow over the miniature ruins of the castle - too huge, Nal thought, and vaguely humanoid in shape - and then it flew off, laboring heavily against the wind. In the soft moonlight this created the disturbing illusion that the bird had hitched itself to Nal's shadow and was pulling his darkness from him. ~ Karen Russell,
220:Doubt tears down the castle walls we have built, with the false security and permanence they give, and forces us outside to walk a lonely, trying, yet cleansing road. In those times, it definitely feels like God is against us, far away, or absent altogether. But what if the darkness is actually a moment of God’s presence that seems like absence, a gift of God to help us grow up out of our little ideas of God? ~ Peter Enns,
221:And now--Piertotum Locomotor!” cried Professor McGonagall.
And all along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Harry knew that their fellows throughout the castle had done the same.
“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school! ~ J K Rowling,
222:Even though it was after midnight, the lights were still burning in Baron Arald’s office when Halt and Gilan reached the castle. The Baron and Sir Rodney, Redmont’s Battlemaster, had a lot of planning to do, preparing for the march to the Plains of Uthal, where they would join the rest of the kingdom’s army. When Halt explained Gilan’s need, Sir Rodney was quick to see where the Ranger’s thinking was headed. ~ John Flanagan,
223:The castle-building habit, the day-dreaming habit - how it grows! what a luxury it becomes; how we fly to its enchantments at every idle moment, how we revel in them, steep our souls in them, intoxicate ourselves with their beguiling fantasies - oh, yes, and how soon and how easily our dream-life and our material life become so intermingled and so fused together that we can't quite tell which is which, anymore. ~ Mark Twain,
224:As a child he was deprived of genuine communication. He suffered unspeakably from this deficiency, and all his works describe nothing other than miscommunication, be it The Castle, The Trial, or The Metamorphosis. In all these novels and stories the questions are never heard—they are answered with strange distortions, and the central figures are totally isolated, totally incapable of getting someone to listen. ~ Alice Miller,
225:The king is always watching her out of his pale eyes, wondering what she is, and the king’s son wounds himself with loving her and wonders who she is. And every day she searches the sea and the sky, the castle and the courtyard, the keep and the king’s face, for something she cannot always remember. What is it, what is it that she is seeking in this strange place? She knew a moment ago, but she has forgotten. ~ Peter S Beagle,
226:The king is always watching her out of his pale eyes, wondering what she is, and the king’s son wounds himself with loving her and wonders who she is. And every day she searches the sea and the sky, the castle and the courtyard, the keep and the king’s face, for something she cannot always remember. What is it, what is it that she is seeking in this strange place? She knew a moment ago, but she was forgotten. ~ Peter S Beagle,
227:What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior. “I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-empty kinda guy.” “Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled. “Was there ever any drink in that glass? ~ Michael J Sullivan,
228:Within and about the Forest of Tantrevalles existed a hundred or more fairy shees, each the castle of a fairy tribe. Thripsey Shee on Madling Meadow, little more than a mile within the precincts of the forest, was ruled by King Throbius and his spouse Queen Bossum. His realm included Madling Meadow and as much of the forest surrounding as was consistent with his dignity. The fairies at Thripsey numbered eighty-six. ~ Jack Vance,
229:At the end of the day faith is a funny thing. It turns up when you don't really expect it. Its like one day you realize that the fairy tale may be slightly different than you dreamed. The castle, well, it may not be a castle. And its not so important happy ever after, just that its happy right now. See once in a while, once in a blue moon, people will surprise you , and once in a while people may even take your breath away. ~ Zane Grey,
230:What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior.
“I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-empty kinda guy.”
“Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled. “Was there ever any drink in that glass? ~ Michael J Sullivan,
231:He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes, … the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world ~ J K Rowling,
232:Hey,” she murmured. “There are people in the house.”
“There are always people in the house,” I reminded her. “That’s why we escaped up here to the castle tower. Escape plan number . . . hell, I don’t know. I lost count. We haven’t had to come up with some dreamy escape plan in a while.”
Sydney trailed her fingers down the side of my face. “That’s because we’re living it, Adrian. This is the only escape plan we need. ~ Richelle Mead,
233:People from all over the world have passed through this village, son," said his father. "They come in search of new things, but when they leave they are basically the same people they were when they arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have blond hair or dark skin, but basically, they're the same as the people who live right here. ~ Paulo Coelho,
234:I never wanted to be you. I saw what the weight of being the heir did to you. And I’m not talking about what our mother did to you. I’m talking about the mantle of responsibility thrust upon you. Hell at fourteen you practically ran the castle. God knows our father never did. And all Mother wanted to do was throw one grand party after another.” /“Well, somebody had to take responsibility. The place was falling apart.”

. ~ Magda Alexander,
235:Franke writes, “We do know that Holmes advertised his ‘hotel’ as a suitable lodging for visitors to the world’s fair; that no fewer than fifty persons, reported to the police as missing, were traced to the Castle; and that there their trail ended” (109). Schechter: “No one can say exactly how many fairgoers Holmes lured to the Castle between May and October 1893, though he appears to have filled the place to capacity on most nights ~ Erik Larson,
236:The symbolic power of Barack Obama’s presidency—that whiteness was no longer strong enough to prevent peons from taking up residence in the castle—assaulted the most deeply rooted notions of white supremacy and instilled fear in its adherents and beneficiaries. And it was that fear that gave the symbols Donald Trump deployed—the symbols of racism—enough potency to make him president, and thus put him in position to injure the world. ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,
237:St. George’s Chapel is at the bottom of the hill inside the castle walls, and though it is quaint compared to Westminster Abbey, I love it—the spectacular fan vaulting in the ceiling, the surprisingly intimate chapel with its wood-carved stalls, and the graves of at least ten monarchs, including that infamous cad Henry VIII (buried with his third wife, Jane Seymour, his favorite on account of her not living long enough to irritate him). ~ Heather Cocks,
238:When the Whispering Mountain shall scream aloud
And the castle of Malyn ride on a cloud,
Then Malyn's lord shall have and hold
The lost that is found, the harp of gold.
Then Fig-hat Ben shall wear a shroud,
Then shall the despoiler, that was so proud,
Plunge headlong down from Devil's Leap;
Then shall the Children from darkness creep,
And the men of the glen avoid disaster,
And the Harp of Teirtu find her master. ~ Joan Aiken,
239:During the long climb down the winding staircase Cornelius whispered many more words of direction and advice. Caspian’s heart was sinking, but he tried to take it all in. Then came the fresh air in the garden, a fervent handclasp with the Doctor, a run across the lawn, a welcoming whinny from Destrier, and so King Caspian the Tenth left the castle of his fathers. Looking back, he saw fireworks going up to celebrate the birth of the new prince. ~ C S Lewis,
240:By this time, half the people in High Norland were gathered in Royal Square to stare at the castle. They all watched with disbelief as the castle rose slightly into the air and glided toward the road that led southward. It was hardly more than an alley, really. "It'll never fit!" people said. But the castle somehow squeezed itself narrow enough to drift away along it and out of sight. The citizens of High Norland gave it a cheer as it went. ~ Diana Wynne Jones,
241:We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off limits to others. We’re willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea. ~ Pema Ch dr n,
242:We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off limits to others. We’re willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea. ~ Pema Chodron,
243:Anon from the castle walls
The crescent banner falls,
And the crowd beholds instead,
Like a portent in the sky,
Iskander's banner fly,
The Black Eagle with double head;
And a shout ascends on high,
For men's souls are tired of the Turks,
And their wicked ways and works,
That have made of Ak-Hissar
A city of the plague;
And the loud, exultant cry
That echoes wide and far
Is: "Long live Scanderbeg! ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
244:At the balls he took me to there were many beautiful young women who didn't say a word. They answered every question with a shrug or a smile. If champagne got spilt down their dresses they only sighed; when the full moon slid out from behind the castle they watched it in silence. I could not understand it. Had they sold their voices too? Even their bodies were silent, always upright, never loosening their lines. They walked like letters on a page. ~ Emma Donoghue,
245:But the boy protected Yorda from the shadows-that-walk-alone. He took her hand, defended her, swung his thin arm, and fought with his tiny frame, driving them back. If the shades dragged her into their realm, she would once again become a prisoner, and the boy would turn to stone, a sad adornment in the castle. Yorda knew this. But the boy did not--even as he did not know that Yorda was the property of the queen of the castle--and he protected her. ~ Miyuki Miyabe,
246:His smile faded at the sight of his uncles lightsaber.

“i’ll take that” he said. “It belongs to me”…

“Strange, then, that it called to me at the castle” Rey said, studying the ancient weapon almost idly before snapping her gaze back to Kylo. “And not to you”.

The corner of Kylo’s mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile, and he inclined his head at the soldiers filling the hangar.

“You’re in no position to dictate”

— ~ Jason Fry,
247:The King sighed. “Sam, ever since the day Morgan brought you to the castle, I knew there was something special about you. It had nothing to do with your magic or whatever Morgan thought you would one day be. It had to do with the size of your heart. You have so much to give to people and I think you sometimes hide it behind your wit and words. I want you to find that someone who makes you feel complete, who allows you to let your guard down and just be. ~ T J Klune,
248:Past the turn I might find a mark of Constance’s foot, because she sometimes came that far to wait for me, but most of Constance’s prints were in the garden and in the house. Today she had come to the end of the garden, and I saw her as soon as I came around the turn; she was standing with the house behind her, in the sunlight, and I ran to meet her. “Merricat,” she said, smiling at me, “look how far I came today.” —We Have Always Lived in the Castle ~ Ruth Franklin,
249:You had every right to be. He raised his eyes to look at her and she was suddenly and strangely reminded of being four years old at the beach, crying when the wind came up and blew away the castle she had made. Her mother had told her she could make another one if she liked, but it hadn't stopped her crying because what she had thought was permanent was not permanent after all, but only made out of sand that vanished at the touch of wind and water. ~ Cassandra Clare,
250:Half-mast the castle banner droops, The Laird’s lament was played yestreen, An’ mony a widowed cottar wife Is greetin’ at her shank aleen. In Freedom’s cause, for ane that fa’s, We’ll glean the glens an’ send them three, To clip the reivin’ eagle’s claws An’ drook his feathers i’ the sea. For gallant loons, in brochs an’ toons,
Are leavin’ shop an’ yaird an’ mill, A’ keen to show baith friend an’ foe Auld Scotland counts for something still. ~ Winston S Churchill,
251:How long would it be before the elements toppled these small structures as they had already toppled the broch and the castle? Would future archaeologists dig here, or had records grown so precise every aspect of the recent past would be charted and ready for those who wanted to know? Maybe, soon enough, there would be no one left, no world to chronicle and argue over. All things must end, why not this too? The thought almost had the power to cheer him. ~ Louise Welsh,
252:You are making a great deal of noise considering you have just recovered from a cold.” “I’m celebrating my recovery and the regaining of my independence. One cannot celebrate quietly,” Elle said. It was only partially true—she was also making a sweep of the castle. She had forsaken her duties during her cold and was anxious to get back to them lest she miss something. “I don’t suppose you do much of anything quietly,” Severin said. “Correct. Jock!” Severin ~ K M Shea,
253:[on chess]

He had learned the moves, back in Vidin, from Levitzky the tailor, who called it “the Russian game.” Thus, the old man pointed out, the weak were sacrificed. The castles, fortresses, were obvious and basic; the bishops moved obliquely; the knights—an officer class—sought power in devious ways; the queen, second-in-command, was pure aggression; and the king, heart of it all, a helpless target, dependent totally on his forces for survival. ~ Alan Furst,
254:The local coachman used to warn visitors, you see. “Don’t go near the castle,” they’d say. “Even if it means spending a night up a tree, never go up there to the castle,” they’d tell people. “Whatever you do, don’t set foot in that castle.” He said it was marvellous publicity. Sometimes he had every bedroom full by 9 p.m. and people would be hammering on the door to get in. Travellers would go miles out of their way to see what all the fuss was about. ~ Terry Pratchett,
255:But first,” Morpheus said with a dismissive sweep of his hand, “we have to be sure what we’re up against when we raid the castle. You and Alyssa managed to take out quite a chunk of the opposition with your fancy footwork. We’re here to assess if the numbers match up with the ones Rabid reported. We must ensure that Grenadine doesn’t have any cards hidden up her sleeve.” He slapped Jeb on the back. “See what I did there? ‘Cards up her sleeve’?” He chuckled. ~ A G Howard,
256:October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the matron, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterwards. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking peaky, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. ~ J K Rowling,
257:Boswell and Thompson write, “Every night the rooms on the two upper floors of the Castle were filled to overflowing. Holmes reluctantly accommodated a few men as paying guests, but catered primarily to women—preferably young and pretty ones of apparent means, whose homes were distant from Chicago and who had no one close to them who might make inquiry if they did not soon return. Many never went home. Many, indeed, never emerged from the castle, having once entered it ~ Erik Larson,
258:Five damn days, that battle took," said Truckle, "'cos the Duchess was doing a tapestry to commemorate it, right? We had to keep doing the fights over and over again, and there was the devil to pay when she was changing needles. There's no place for the media on the field of battle, I've always said."
"Aye, and I mind you makin' a rude sign to the ladies!" Hamish cackled. "I saw that ol' tapestry in the castle of Rosante years later and I could tell it wuz you! ~ Terry Pratchett,
259:There you are!” he shouted at them. “Father has half the castle turned out looking for you.” “Us?” Hadrian asked. “Yes.” Fanen nodded. “He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers right away.” “You didn’t steal the silver or anything, did you, Royce?” Hadrian asked. “I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon and threatening Mauvin just to show off,” Royce retorted. “That was your fault,” Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
260:Binky trotted down over nothingness and touched down on the flagstones of the castle’s topmost tower. Death dismounted and told Mort to sort out the nosebag. ‘Won’t people notice there’s a horse up here?’ he said, as they strolled to a stairwell. Death shook his head. WOULD YOU BELIEVE THERE COULD BE A HORSE AT THE TOP OF THIS TOWER? he said. ‘No. You couldn’t get one up these stairs,’ said Mort. WELL, THEN? ‘Oh. I see. People don’t want to see what can’t possibly exist. ~ Terry Pratchett,
261:Yesterday I heard some of the castle servants talking about a funeral for one of the stable lads. He went skating last week on the pond in the village, but the ice was not thick enough and he drowned. I like to skate on the ice,too, Papa, have my own pair of bone skates. I could drown crossing the Channel as Uncle Robert fears... or I could drown back in Angers, if I was unlucky like that stable lad." Geoffrey's mouth twitched. "God help me," he said, "I've sired a lawyer! ~ Sharon Kay Penman,
262:When I go out by the gateway, taking the road I drove along that first time I picked up Lotte for the ball, how very different it all is! It is all over, all of it! There is not a hint of the world that once was, not one bulse-beat of those past emotions. I feel like a ghost returning to the burnt-out ruins of the castle he built in his prime as a prince, which he adorned with magnificent splendours and then, on his deathbed, but full of hope, left to his beloved son ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
263:Anyway, Arianna and I left the castle very late one evening. I knew the knight on guard at the drawbridge so I hit hit him over the head because I didn't want to hurt him.
Garion blinked.
"I knew he'd be honor-bound to try to stop us," Lelldorin explained. "I didn't want to have to kill him, so I hit him over the head."
"I suppose that makes sense," Garion said dubiously.
"Arianna's almost positive he won't die."
"I hit him just a little too hard, I think. ~ David Eddings,
264:How did you get into the castle, Alexandre, son of Gilles Smith?”
Sand shrugged. “A saint kidnapped me from his shrine and put me into a fireplace here. So I guess the answer is, a miracle of Saint Melor. Or so I think. He has not told me.”
“If you are trying to antagonize him, you are doing a good job,” Perrotte whispered.
Sand scuffed his shoe at her. “I’m just telling the truth!”
“You’re very good at telling it in the most maddening way possible.”
“Thank you? ~ Merrie Haskell,
265:They were climbing now, climbing the hill of hardened mud upon which the castle stood, and once they had left the lee of the dunes the flies grew less; the heat, on the other hand, was greater still. 'You are going a very disagreeable colour,' said Stephen. 'Should not you throw off that thick coat, and loosen your neckcloth? Heavy, corpulent subjects are liable to be carried off in a twinkling, if not by a frank, straightforward apoplexy, then at least by a
cerebral congestion. ~ Patrick O Brian,
266:LADY CROOM: You have been reading too many novels by Mrs Radcliffe, that is my opinion. This is a garden for The Castle of Otranto or The Mysteries of Udolpho --

CHATER: The Castle of Otranto, my lady, is by Horace Walpole.

NOAKES: (Thrilled) Mr Walpole the gardener?!

LADY CROOM: Mr Chater, you are a welcome guest at Sidley Park but while you are one, The Castle of Otranto was written by whomsoever I say it was, otherwise what is the point of being a guest or having one? ~ Tom Stoppard,
267:A hush of expectancy descended in the chamber as all waited to hear the request. What treasure could he want? Laren inventoried in her mind all the precious trappings of the castle she could think of -jewels, weapons, art-and she saw that the others must be doing the same. What did the Sacoridians possess that would be good enough for the Eletian prince?
"My brother," Graelalea said, "requires many pounds of dark chocolate fudge and Dragon Droppings. We must visit the Master of Chocolate. ~ Kristen Britain,
268:From the tower battlements, Dustfinger looked down on a lake as black as night, where the reflection of the castle swam in a sea of stars. The wind passing over his unscarred face was cold from the snow of the surrounding mountains, and Dustfinger relished life as if he were tasting it for the first time. The longing it brought, and the desire. All the bitterness, all the sweetness, even if it was only for a while, never for more than a while, everything gained and lost, lost and found again. ~ Cornelia Funke,
269:It looked like someone had been planting stars. The castle was in shreds, flagstone floors tiny islands in a sea of stones and wild grass, but clusters of lights were nestled on the castle floor and the earth of the cliffs alike, lanterns strung from the crumbling battlements.

There were so many lights they cast a shimmering haze over everything, bathing the ruins in a pale glow. Mae walked, hardly aware that she was walking, through Tintagel Castle over stones washed in brightness ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,
270:The castle always looks so mysterious," she said, awed. "Is it wonderful, living there?"

"It isn’t so mysterious when you're there. I'd rather look at it from the hills. It's just—full of people, at least the servants' parts are, crowded and ordinary. Things should be mysterious, but there's nothing mysterious in the palace."

"Should things be mysterious?"

"There's mystery in the hills and in the wind on the grass. And in the stories you like. Isn't life mysterious? ~ Shirley Rousseau Murphy,
271:There you are!” he shouted at them. “Father has half the castle turned
out looking for you.”
“Us?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes.” Fanen nodded. “He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers
right away.”
“You didn’t steal the silver or anything, did you, Royce?” Hadrian
“I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon
and threatening Mauvin just to show off,” Royce retorted.
“That was your fault,” Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
272:When K. looked at the castle, often it seemed to him as if he were observing someone who sat quietly there in front of him gazing, not lost in thought and so oblivious of everything, but free and untroubled, as if he were alone with nobody to observe him, and yet must notice that he was observed, and all the same remained with his calm not even slightly disturbed; and really - one did not know whether it was cause or effect - the gaze of the observer could not remain concentrated there, but slid away. ~ Franz Kafka,
273:There was also an amazing scent of fresh-baked... something.
Baking wasn't a thing under the sea. When Ariel lived at the castle with Eric she had tried breads, cakes, pies, rolls, and sweets, and found them all mystifying (though delicious). They were like nothing she had ever eaten before and sometimes came to her plate still warm, which was also an odd way to eat food. Eric had bought her twelve different kinds of pie at a fancy shop in town and laughed as she had a bite of each, savoring. ~ Liz Braswell,
274:I’m just glad you planned to have your honeymoon away from the castle,” he replied as he smirked knowingly. “Gods know when you two go at it, the entire power grid and magical field around the castle is high voltage.”
“You can feel it?” I gasped.
“What did you expect, Flower? You’re a Goddess of Faery; your mother is a fertility Goddess. When you two fuck, even the flowers feel it. Last night, they bloomed. You know, the ones that only open once a year were awakened by the power you two gave off. ~ Amelia Hutchins,
275:And I thought, I am in love. For the first time I am in love. And loved. Someone loves me. And I love them. And within me things clicked and whirled like the insides of some gigantic clock, cog against wheel, spring against spiral, tick against tock, and I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. I had shown someone what I really was. I had shown someone my truth, my secret. Out there, beyond the walls of the Castle, there was a boy who had seen inside my chrysalis. And I would never be safe again. ~ Philip Ridley,
276:Martha spoke again. “In case you’ve forgotten, here are the rules, Beast, laid out by all the sisters: You must love her and that love must be returned with true love’s kiss, before your twenty first birthday. She may use the mirror as you do, to see into the world beyond your kingdom, but she must never know the details of the curse or how it’s to be broken. You will notice she sees the castle and its enchantments differently than yourself. The most terrifying aspects of the curse are reserved for you. ~ Serena Valentino,
277:Right,” I said once more, because it sounded firm, and because Armand’s brittle desolation was beginning to eat at me. None of this, after all, was his fault. “We get him downstairs. We sneak him out of the castle, back to your motorcar. You take Jesse to a doctor and take your father home. Lock him in a room, pour some wine down his throat. Laudanum. Whatever you have to do to keep him out while I get rid of the guns. None of this ever happened.” I looked at Jesse. “Are there hidden tunnels to use? So no one sees? ~ Shana Abe,
278:I think of everything we went through together, me and Lief: His coming to the castle. Our being together. His betrayal. HIs alliance with Aurek. And now I'll never know the truth of him. Perhaps, on the King's Road, he was trying to get me away, not hurt me. Perhaps the reason he hit me at the commune was to stop me from fighting and getting hurt. He gave me the Opus Mortem; he gave me back my note to him. He gave up his life, knowingly, to help us. Yet no one will ever know the whole truth, and he died a villain. ~ Melinda Salisbury,
279:Nutt was technically an expert on love poetry throughout the ages and had discussed it at length with Miss Healstether, the castle librarian. He had also tried to discuss it with Ladyship, but she had laughed and said it was frivolity, although quite helpful as a tutorial on the use of vocabulary, scansion, rhythm and affect as a means to an end, to wit getting a young lady to take all her clothes off. At that particular point, Nutt had not really understood what she meant. It sounded like some sort of conjuring trick. ~ Terry Pratchett,
280:She didn't know 'this meadow', exactly. But she was familiar with the concept. The types of plants. The 'raven,' which she knew was too big to be a 'crow'. The trees: the way the trees circled meant there was probably a bog or a stream in the middle, where the land dipped. She 'knew' that. She knew that beyond these leafy trees would be gnarled, thicker trees with dark green leaves. And beyond them, pines. And under their heavy boughs, there lay a friendly darkness so complete it put the vines over the castle bailey to shame. ~ Liz Braswell,
281:The original castle back in Edinburgh was the seat of Scottish nationalism. It symbolized everything to the diehard believers. Despite all the changes and defeats they endured, the castle stood solid at the center of their capital. They waited for generations for the Scottish nation to be properly reborn after their Bonnie Prince was lost. There were times when the cause seemed impossible, or even cursed; they regained their independence from the English only to lose it again right away with the formation of Federal Europe. ~ Peter F Hamilton,
282:And if that hadn't been enough, the castle cat, obviously female and obviously in heat, had sashayed in, tail straight up and perkily curved at the tip, and wound her furry little self sinuously around Adam's ankles, purring herself into a state of drooling, slanty-eyed bliss. Mr. Black, my ass, she'd wanted to snap (and she liked cats, really she did; she'd certainly never wanted to kick one before, but please— even cats?), he's a fairy and I found him, so that makes him my fairy. Back off.

-Gabby's thought on Adam ~ Karen Marie Moning,
283:In this life you have to be your own hero. By that I mean you have to win whatever it is that matters to you by your own strength and in your own way. Like it or not, you are alone in a forest, just like all those fairy tales that begin with a hero who’s usually stupid but somehow brave, or who might be clever, but weak as a straw, and away he goes (don’t worry about the gender), cheered on by nobody, via the castles and the bears, and the old witch and the enchanted stream, and by and by (we hope) he’ll find the treasure. ~ Jeanette Winterson,
284:Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked Valek as we stopped a few feet short of the castle’s south entrance. “Did Ari and Janco set me up for Nix’s attack? Do you have another test of loyalty for me up your sleeve? Maybe the next time, I’ll actually fail. A prospect that seems appealing!” I pushed away Valek’s supporting arm. “When you warned me that you would test me from time to time, I thought you meant spiking my food. But it seems there is more than one way to poison a person’s heart, and it doesn’t even require a meal. ~ Maria V Snyder,
285:He tilted back in the decaying lawn chair, almost went over on his back, and used up some more of his screwdriver. The screwdriver was in a glass he had gotten free from a McDonald's restaurant. There was some sort of purple animal on the glass. Something called a Grimace. Gary ate a lot of his meals at the Castle Rock McDonald's, where you could still get a cheap hamburger. Hamburgers were good. But as for the Grimace... and Mayor McCheese... and Monsieur Ronald Fucking McDonald... Gary Pervier didn't give a shit for any of them. ~ Stephen King,
286:Your men are watching the border, Torquil is now within the castle walls, and Angus is with Fagan." She raised her brow, "Everything is once again under control. I think we passed the time quite nicely. Wouldn't you say, Laird Sutherland?"
Ruairi chuckled as he fastened his kilt. "I would think so. I have to admit, I've ne'er had so much fun in my study before."
"I would certainly hope not." She ran her hand over the top of his desk. "I dare say, I don't think you'll ever be able to think of your desk the same way again. ~ Victoria Roberts,
287:I thought that ground fire couldn’t reach the zeppelins,” I said. “I thought that guns on the ground didn’t have the range.”
“Eleanore. Do you imagine for one particle of one second that he was thinking clearly enough to fathom that?”
“He was thinking clearly enough to fathom all of this,” I retorted, my hand flung out to encompass the roof. Blood stained my palm. “Clearly enough to have men haul all these crates into the castle in broad daylight all week long, so that everyone could see them and wonder what was actually inside! ~ Shana Abe,
288:In this life you have to be your own hero.

By that I mean you have to win whatever it is that matters to you by your own strength and in your own way.

Like it or not, you are alone in a forest, just like all those fairy tales that begin with a hero who’s usually stupid but somehow brave, or who might be clever, but weak as a straw, and away he goes (don’t worry about the gender), cheered on by nobody, via the castles and the bears, and the old witch and the enchanted stream, and by and by (we hope) he’ll find the treasure. ~ Jeanette Winterson,
289:Daydreaming had spun in her head a book-length "soon-to-be" affair with Percy. He would call her when she returned home, ask her out, pick her up in a Porsche, take her to an expensive restaurant and order lobster, then to the theater, kissing her passionately in his leather upholstered seats afterwards, promising that he would see her the following day, and the day after that. She was still working on the castle-in-the-sky and the happily-ever-after chapters. It was incredible the material an innocent, half-hour conversation could generate. ~ Christopher Pike,
290:For a moment he came near to sharing their incredible belief—it would do no harm to mutter a prayer of thanks to the God of his childhood, the God of the Common and the castle, that no ill had yet come to Sarah's child. Then a sonic boom scattered the words of the hymn and shook the old glass of the west window and rattled the crusader's helmet which hung on a pillar, and he was reminded again of the grown-up world. He went quickly out and bought the Sunday papers. The Sunday Express had a headline on the front page—"Child's Body Found in Wood. ~ Graham Greene,
291:when the illumination did at last come, we felt repaid. It came unexpectedly, of course—things always do, that have been long looked and longed for. With a perfectly breath-taking suddenness several mast sheaves of varicolored rockets were vomited skyward out of the black throats of the Castle towers, accompanied by a thundering crash of sound, and instantly every detail of the prodigious ruin stood revealed against the mountainside and glowing with an almost intolerable splendor of fire and color. For some little time the whole building was a blinding ~ Mark Twain,
292:Like a slapstick comedian, Dirk suffered all kinds of iniquities. He battled past Mud Men, skeletons, creepy crawlies, giant bats and an obstinate suit of flying horse armour. If he survived the castle’s traps, he’d ultimately find the shapely Princess Daphne waiting for him, locked away inside a glass bubble in Singe the Dragon’s coin-filled lair. She was a blonde siren with nipples erect enough to hang your coat on - and her design owed more to animator Gary Goldman’s Playboy magazine collection than to the chaste Cinderellas and Snow Whites of Disney. ~ Anonymous,
293:How the devil was she fooled into firing in the first place? Don’t tell me that wasn’t your fault,’ said Lord Culter, a familiar wariness displacing the warmth of reunion.

‘All right, I won’t,’ said Lymond. ‘Jerott, did you get shot also? No. Then kindly muster the lady in your monkish arms and ride with her to the castle. Yours is the only reputation that will stand it. And don’t say I don’t endow you with princely rewards for sitting on your bloody arse doing precisely nothing.’

Which was the manner of Lymond’s homecoming from Malta. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
294:I have heard our father tell of it. It was a good idea, but it was against religion, and the Father made that very clear. The loss of the pearl was a punishment visited on those who tried to leave their station. And the Father made it clear that each man and woman is like a soldier sent by God to guard some part of the castle of
the Universe. And some are in the ramparts and some far deep in the darkness of the walls. But each one must remain faithful to his post and must not go running about, else the castle is in danger from the assaults of Hell. ~ John Steinbeck,
295:Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.” “Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin’, I know it, it’s my fault —” “No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he’d like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” said Harry. “He’s gone to change into something more suitable, I think . . . and he said he’d bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog’s memory. . . .” “Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha’s — tha’s righ’ nice of him, that is, an ~ J K Rowling,
296:I didn’t think students were allowed below the main floor. I knew the kitchens were there, as were most of the servants’ quarters; the professors and Mrs. Westcliffe had their own aboveground wing on the other side of the castle. No one had ever specifically told me not to go below stairs, however-probably because a true Iverson girl would never, ever dream of mingling with the help.
I could always say I’d gotten lost. The pillars of the world would hardly collapse. The sky would not shatter. I was barely a hairbreadth away from being the help myself. ~ Shana Abe,
297:It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way — and it’s the regular way.  And there ain’t no other way, that ever I heard of, and I’ve read all the books that gives any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife — and not through dirt, mind you; generly it’s through solid rock.  And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever.  Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was he at it, you reckon? ~ Mark Twain,
298:Did this mean he was about to tell her something he wouldn’t normally? Her ears perked—figuratively, since her ears were now feather-covered holes in the sides of her head.

He laughed softly. “You know, you are almost enjoyable to talk to, when you do not say anything back.”

She willed the water in the tub to strike him in the face.

There was a loud splash. “Hey!” He sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “Interesting. You are still capable of elemental powers. But stop—or I will feed you to the castle cats.”

She struck him again. ~ Sherry Thomas,
299:I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall. ~ Bram Stoker,
300:I think the word despair is much too small to encompass the magnitude of all it defines. For me, right then, despair meant that everything within me-my organs, my spirit, my hope-plunged down into a place of utter density, of blackness so heavy and bleak I had no idea how to lift any of it up again.
I can’t do this. I’m just Lora Jones. I can’t even remember how to tell a shrimp fork from an oyster fork. I can barely find middle C. I can’t save Jesse and Armand and the castle. I can’t defeat them all.
But I had to. We were going to die unless I did. ~ Shana Abe,
301:Marriage was a trap. The moment the man said the word “I do” at the altar, he surrendered his freedom. He was no longer free to pursue other women. Staying out past the appointed hour required his wife’s permission. Getting drunk with his friends resulted in a fight when he got home. He’d have to report where he went, when he would be back, who he would be with, and why he would choose to do something else rather than stay home and pick out fabric for new drapes. A married man was no longer carefree. He was a provider, a husband and a father. The castle was no longer his. ~ Ilona Andrews,
302:The sky was aquamarine, stroked with clouds. She could smell the grass, and taste the scent of small, crushed flowers. She looked back up over her forehead at the grey-black wall towering behind her, and wondered if the castle had ever been attacked on days like this. Did the sky seem so limitless, the waters of the straits so fresh and clean, the flowers so bright and fragrant, when men fought and screamed, hacked and staggered and fell and watched their blood mat the grass? Mists and dusk, rain and lowering cloud seemed the better background; clothes to cover the shame of battle. ~ Anonymous,
303:Inside your head you hear
a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up
in a stranger’s bathroom,
standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away
from the dirtiest thing you know.
All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly
suddenly only darkness.
In the living room, in the broken yard,
in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport
bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of
unnatural light,
my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. ~ Richard Siken,
304:A figure came tiptoeing through the dark. Raven and Apple froze. The figure saw them and froze. All three just stood there, frozen, wondering if they were seen. “Ashlynn, is that you?” Apple finally whispered. “What are you doing out here? Leaving the castle at night is against the rules.” “I know. I’m sorry. I just…” Ashlynn tilted her head. “Wait, what are you doing here?” Apple’s mouth hung open. “Uh… official Royal Student Council business. Hey, maybe you could help us get through the briars? We just have some of that official business I mentioned. Outside the briars. At midnight. ~ Shannon Hale,
305:O were my love yon Lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';
And I myself a drap o' dew,
Into her bonie breast to fa'!
O there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light! ~ Robert Burns,
306:puzzles continue to resist critical explication — to become that bane of scholars down through the ages: the apocryphal work. For all of the castle adventures thus far have been based to some extent on truth. The tales told in preceding books were in fact true stories, so far as this castle scribe has been able to ascertain. Indeed, some of the castle’s more harrowing events are forever etched in acid on the copperplate of my memory. But this is not the case with the “events” related in this particular castle book. No such happenings have been recorded in Perilous’s annals. No such drama ~ John DeChancie,
307:For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was
the princess,
cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,
young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with
but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess,
while I’m out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,
and getting stabbed to death.
Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.
You still get to be the hero.
You get magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights! ~ Richard Siken,
308:This was because the hawks and falcons in the castle mews were all Lancre birds and therefore naturally possessed of a certain “sod you” independence of mind. After much patient breeding and training Hodgesaargh had managed to get them to let go of someone’s wrist, and now he was working on stopping them viciously attacking the person who had just been holding them, i.e., invariably Hodgesaargh. He was nevertheless a remarkably optimistic and good-natured man who lived for the day when his hawks would be the finest in the world. The hawks lived for the day when they could eat his other ear. ~ Terry Pratchett,
309:We can go back to the Dark Ages! The crust of learning and good manners and tolerance is so thin! It would just take a few thousand big shells and gas bombs to wipe out all the eager young men, and all the libraries and historical archives and patent offices, all the laboratories and art galleries, all the castles and Periclean temples and Gothic cathedrals, all the cooperative stores and motor factories—every storehouse of learning. No inherent reason why Sissy's grandchildren—if anybody's grandchildren will survive at all—shouldn't be living in caves and heaving rocks at catamounts. ~ Sinclair Lewis,
310:Since moving to the Castle, she'd discovered that only the white men talked of 'black magic.' As though magic had a color. Effia had seen a traveling witch who carried a snake around her neck and shoulders. This woman had had a son. She'd sung lullabies to him at night and held his hands and kept him fed, same as anyone else. There was nothing dark about her.

The need to call this thing 'good' and this thing 'bad,' this thing 'white' and this thing 'black,' was an impulse that Effia did not understand. In her village, everything was everything. Everything bore the weight of everything else. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
311:She said being human is being a young child on Christmas Day who receives an absolutely magnificent castle. And there is a perfect photograph of this castle on the box and you want more than anything to play with the castle and the knights and the princesses because it looks like such a perfectly human world, but the only problem is that the castle isn’t built. It’s in tiny intricate pieces, and although there’s a book of instructions you don’t understand it. And nor can your parents or Aunt Sylvie. So you are just left, crying at the ideal castle on the box which no one would ever be able to build ~ Matt Haig,
312:Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to him seconds later and looked around. The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral staircase that led back into the castle was closed. There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the death, of a body. “What does it mean?” Harry asked Dumbledore, looking up at the green skull with its serpent’s tongue glinting evilly above them. “Is it the real Mark? Has someone definitely been — Professor?” In the dim green glow from the Mark, Harry saw Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened hand. ~ J K Rowling,
313:Fighting isn’t all there is to the Art of War. The men who think that way, and are satisfied to have food to eat and a place to sleep, are mere vagabonds. A serious student is much more concerned with training his mind and disciplining his spirit than with developing martial skills. He has to learn about all sorts of things—geography, irrigation, the people’s feelings, their manners and customs, their relationship with the lord of their territory. He wants to know what goes on inside the castle, not just what goes on outside it. He wants, essentially, to go everywhere he can and learn everything he can. ~ Eiji Yoshikawa,
315:The Mennonites have Dirk Willems, who was arrested for his religious beliefs in the sixteenth century and held in a prison tower. With the aid of a rope made of knotted rags, he let himself down from the window and escaped across the castle’s ice-covered moat. A guard gave chase. Willems made it safely to the other side. The guard did not, falling through the ice into the freezing water, and Willems stopped, went back, and pulled his pursuer to safety. For his act of compassion, he was taken back to prison, tortured, and then burned slowly at the stake as he repeated “Oh, my Lord, my God” seventy times over.8 ~ Malcolm Gladwell,
316:I can't swim, Damin.'
'Come on! You don't balk at riding dragons.'
...R'shiel decided she didn't have time to be squeamish. She slipped into the water, gasping as the chill salty ocean filled her mouth. She began to panic as the waves crashed over her, then a warm, solid body pushed her clear of the foam. She grabbed for the beast's fin and pulled herself upright as it plunged through the waves in the wake of the creatures carrying Adrina and Damin.
R'shiel clung to the beast in terror as the castle dwindled in the distance, determined never, as long as she lived, to ask another god for his help again. ~ Jennifer Fallon,
317:As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. ~ J K Rowling,
318:YES! a ten!

"Landing you in the Enchanted Forest, which is MY domain.
600 gold, please."

"My Scottie dog will not pay your tyrannical toll!"

"Nimona... "

"He rallied the oppressed woodland creatures and organized a revolt!"

"It just so happens I am a just ruler and am greatly admired by all my subjects."

"Squirrels scale the walls of the castle and bears batter down the gates!
Bloody chaos ensues!
The Enchanted Forest is ours!"

"I'm taking the 600 gold anyway."


"Plus another 600 for damages. ~ Noelle Stevenson,
319:What people thought of the castle was one of the few things about the kingdom Snow could control, and she took pride in the work... even on days when her back began to ache from scrubbing tiles or her hands grew callused from all the pruning she did in the garden. She tried to break up her day between indoor and outdoor activities when the weather allowed it. Today was a fine day, so she hoped to get out to the garden as soon as possible. She wanted to gather flowers to make bouquets for the castle vases. There wouldn't be many who had the opportunity to see the flowers, but at least the servants' day would be brightened. ~ Jen Calonita,
320:They hurried away, Westley’s hand on her elbow as he ushered her away from the house. “As I was saying.” Westley cleared his throat. They were walking across the grassy area in front of the castle, headed back to the road that would take them to the meadow and the festival. “Yes?” “Would you ever consider marrying me, a man without a title, if it meant defying the king?” “Yes. I would consider it.” Did he say what she thought he said? It was not exactly a proposal of marriage, but very nearly. Her insides seemed to go numb at the thought of being so close to her greatest wish coming true. They stared into each other’s eyes. ~ Melanie Dickerson,
321:into the West Wing. Not even the sisters came to this part of the castle. He had escaped their mockery for long stretches of time when he spent most of his days here in the beginning—hiding away, letting his anger swell to epic proportions, fearful of what he was becoming, yet intrigued concurrently. It had been that way at first, hadn’t it? Intriguing. The subtle differences in his features, the lines around his eyes that frightened his foes when he narrowed them. Using a look rather than words to strike fear into his enemies was very useful indeed. He had looked upon himself in the mirror in those days, trying to distinguish ~ Serena Valentino,
322:Don't be so hard on yourself,
as if you'd been trapped
and sealed in amber.
Since you passed away
I've been following your trail,
traced only with lost words.

Recently I went looking for the castle
and found it in Bohemia.
You'd given orders
for diligent restorers
to renew its façades
on all sides.

They hadn't finished back then,
they're still at it today,
and they will be tomorrow.
Because it crumbles, cracks appear,
mold swells the plaster, withers its bright skin,
on the weather side first.

It comforts me, their toil,
for I too loved you
on all sides, in vain. ~ G nter Grass,
323:And as for Vidanric, well, you’re safe there. I’ve never met anyone as closemouthed, when he wants to be. He won’t ask your reasons. What?”
“I said, ‘Hah.’”
“What is it, do you mislike him?” Again she was studying me, her fingers playing with the pretty fan hanging at her waist.
“Yes. No. Not mislike, but more…mistrust. Not what he’ll do, but what he might say,” I babbled. “Oh, never mind. It’s all foolishness. Suffice it to say I feel better when we’re at opposite ends of the country, but I’ll settle for opposite ends of the castle.”
Her eyes widened. If she hadn’t been a lady, I would have said she was on the verge of whistling. ~ Sherwood Smith,
324:I decided to walk alongside Beth and the annoying little ass. It seemed right that it wouldn't be her walking toward me or me waiting for her, but us traveling on the journey together. Because sometimes, that's how love is. It isn't a man chasing a woman, it isn't a man storming the castle, and it isn't the girl waiting for love to happen. It's two people making a commitment. It's two people realizing that they hold the keys to their own happiness in their own damn hands. The problem? Most people forget that they have the power to live the fairytale. I'd forgotten I had the power, and in the end, I'd been willing to walk away from my future. ~ Rachel Van Dyken,
326:This tragic short story was written in 1829 and published in 1830 in La Mode, followed by another edition in the Gosselin magazine in 1831. The tale also appeared in 1846 in volume II of Études Philosophiques of the Furne edition. Set during the time of the French army’s occupation of Spain under Napoleon, the tale opens with an idyllic moonlit scene in the castle gardens of the coastal town of Menda. The local French commandant, Victor Marchand, stands lost in thought, meditating on the beautiful Clara, the daughter of the local grandee. Thoughts of romance are soon dissipated as he becomes aware that a fleet of ships is approaching the coast. ~ Honor de Balzac,
327:My mother was, in the tradition of parents, quite a complicated and contradictory human being. Moralistic but a devout lover of pleasure (food, music, the aesthetics of nature). Deeply religious but seemingly as comforted by singing a secular chanson as by prayer. A lover of the natural world who was visibly anxious every time she left the castle. Fragile, but also though and stubborn. I never knew how many of her oddities had sprung from grief and how many from her own inherent nature. "There is not one blade of grass, there is no colour in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice," my mother told me once, shortly after arriving in England. ~ Matt Haig,
328:And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done. “Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased. . . . Give Aragog a better send-off, you know . . .” “Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I’ll meet you down there with a bottle or two. . . . We’ll drink the poor beast’s — well — not health — but we’ll send it off in style, anyway, once it’s buried. And I’ll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion. . . .” He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid’s, delighted with himself. ~ J K Rowling,
329:One day Cunegonde, while walking near the castle, in a little wood which they called a park, saw between the bushes, Dr. Pangloss giving a lesson in experimental natural philosophy to her mother’s chamber-maid, a little brown wench, very pretty and very docile. As Miss Cunegonde had a great disposition for the sciences, she breathlessly observed the repeated experiments of which she was a witness; she clearly perceived the force of the Doctor’s reasons, the effects, and the causes; she turned back greatly flurried, quite pensive, and filled with the desire to be learned; dreaming that she might well be a sufficient reason for young Candide, and he for her. ~ Voltaire,
330:You don’t think she can have been . . . you know . . . in love with Sirius?” Hermione stared at him. “What on earth makes you say that?” “I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly crying when I mentioned his name . . . and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now. . . . I wondered whether it hadn’t become . . . you know . . . him.” “It’s a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still don’t know why she’d be bursting into the castle to see Dumbledore, if that’s really why she was here. . . .” “Goes back to what I said, doesn’t it?” said Ron, who was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth. “She’s gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he ~ J K Rowling,
331:James had heard this speech or something like it many times before. The British were no longer selling slaves to America, but slavery had not ended, and his father did not seem to think that it would end. They would just trade one type of shackles for another, trade physical ones for the invisible ones that wrapped around the mind. James didn't understand this when he was younger, when the legal slave exportation had ended and the illegal one had begun, but he understood now. The British had no intention of leaving Africa, even once the slave trade ended. They owned the Castle, and, though they had yet to speak it aloud, they intended to own the land as well. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
332:He kissed her again, bringing both hands up behind her head to hold her still, and his hot lips slanted sideways across her open moutb. Her head spun crazily. She was dizzy. She could not breathe in here. She would fall in front of the queen. They would all know what he had done. There was no time left, surely. The castle portcullis would swing up, the door would be opened and His Grace would see them!
He pulled his mouth away and said against her flushed cheek, "I have never envied any other man his bed before this long, long week. Now two men will possess you and neither really loves you, Mary Bullen. Think of me when you spread your sweet thighs for them! ~ Karen Harper,
333:Let's say I will rip your life apart. Me and my banker friends."
How can he explain that to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from the castle walls, but from counting houses, not be the call of the bugle, but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot. ~ Hilary Mantel,
334:They’ve been lying from the start. From the first time we read the words ‘once upon a time,’ we’re fed the idea that these girls—these gorgeous, demure, singing-with-the-wildlife girls—get a happy ending. And I get it. Poor thing had to do some chores around the house, fine. But the idea that she needs a magic old lady to come down and skim off the dirt so the prince will see her beauty? That’s ridiculous. Maybe she should have been working on her lockpicking skills instead of serenading squirrels. She could have busted out, hitched a ride to the castle, and impressed the prince with her safe-cracking prowess. Sorry, magic-fairy lady. She didn’t need your help. ~ Kelsey Macke,
335:It was Fidelma's favourite walk, a winding path by the river in the Castle grounds. The Castle with its turrets and ivied walls was a five-star hotel which attracted celebrities and regulars who came for the fishing and shooting. She could do that walk in her sleep, over the bridge, down three steps, by a sign that read 'Please Close the Gate' and all of a sudden the sound of the river, squeezing its way under the bridge and then bursting out as it opened into a wide sweep, making its way upstream, girdling the small islands that it passed. The sound was like water bursting in childbirth, or so a woman who had had many children once told her, and she remembered it. ~ Edna O Brien,
336:Do you think the Gilarabrywn knows we’re still in here?”

“Esrahaddon said it was intelligent, so I presume it can count.”

“Then it will come back and find us. We have to reach the castle. The distance across the open is about—what? Two hundred feet?”

“About that,” Royce confirmed.

“I guess we can hope it’s still munching on Millie. Ready?”

“Run spread out so it can’t get both of us. Go.” The grass was slick with dew and filled with stumps and pits. Hadrian got only a dozen yards before falling on his face.

“Stay behind me,” Royce told him.

“I thought we were spreading out?”

“That’s before I remembered you’re blind. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
337:Septimus had no need to untie Spit Fyre as the dragon had already chewed his way through the rope. They followed Aunt Zelda and Jenna out the side door at the foot of the turret and down to the Palace Gate. Aunt Zelda kept up a brisk pace. Showing a surprising knowledge of the Castle’s narrow alleyways and sideslips, she hurtled along. Oncoming pedestrians were taken aback at the sight of the large patchwork tent approaching them at full speed. They flattened themselves against the walls, and, as the tent passed by with the Princess, the ExtraOrdinary Apprentice and a feral-looking boy with bandaged hands—not to mention a dragon—in its wake, people rubbed their eyes in disbelief. ~ Angie Sage,
338:She never sent the castle to sleep”, said Granny, “that’s just an old wife’s tale. She just stirred up time a little. It’s not as hard as people think, everyone does it all the time. It’s like rubber, is time, you can stretch it to suit yourself.”
Magrat was about to say: That’s not right, time is time, every second lasts a second, that’s its job. The she recalled weeks that had flown past and afternoons that had lasted forever. Some minutes had lasted hours, some hours had gone past so quickly she hadn’t been aware they’d gone past at all.
“But that’s just people’s perception, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes”, said Granny, “of course it is, it all is, what difference does that make? ~ Terry Pratchett,
339:Is that all?" asked Flambeau after a long pause. "Have we got to the dull truth at last?"

"Oh, no," said Father Brown.

As the wind died in the most distant pine woods with a long hoot as of mockery Father Brown, with an utterly impassive face, went on:

"I only suggested that because you said one could not plausibly connect snuff with clockwork or candles with bright stones. Ten false philosophies will fit the universe; ten false theories will fit Glengyle Castle. But we want the real explanation of the castle and the universe. But are there no other exhibits?"

Craven laughed, and Flambeau rose smiling to his feet and strolled down the long table.

[Ch.6] ~ G K Chesterton,
340:Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the only place he had ever been happy . . . well, he supposed he must have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn’t remember that. Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel slightly calmer. He finished his bacon with difficulty (his throat wasn’t working too well), and as he and Hermione got up, he ~ J K Rowling,
341:He held the papers up to the moonlight. There was a little smudging, there, right where the chorus was supposed to come in with a D major triad. But it wasn't so bad.
His eyes drifted from the pages to the moon, which shone clearly through his unglazed window. A bright star kept it company. A faint breeze blew, causing the thick leaves of the trees below to make shoe-like clacking noises against the castle wall. It carried with it whatever scents it had picked up on its way from the sea: sandalwood, sand, oranges, dust. Dry things, stuff of the land.
Eric looked back at his music, tried to recapture the sound and feel of the ocean that had played in his head before waking, aquamarine and sweet. ~ Liz Braswell,
342:the final revelation comes when you look at these City-men on the train; for you realize that for them, the business of escaping is complicated by the fact that they think they are the prison. An astounding situation! Imagine a large castle on an island, with almost inescapable dungeons. The jailor has installed every device to prevent the prisoners escaping, and he has taken one final precaution: that of hypnotizing the prisoners, and then suggesting to them that they and the prison are one. When one of the prisoners awakes to the fact that he would like to be free, and suggests this to his fellow prisoners, they look at him with surprise and say: Tree from what? We are the castle.’ What a situation! ~ Colin Wilson,
343:You called me ‘Fluttershy.’ As in the My Little Pony, ‘Fluttershy?’”

“Oh.” He looked a little taken aback for a second. “Yeah.” He sucked in his lips, pinched them between his teeth, and then shrugged. “What can I say? You’re just like her. You care more about animals than you do your own safety. I’m gonna have to kidnap a rabbit and threaten you with bunnicide unless you come quietly back to the castle with me.”

“What?” Diana felt her eyes go wide.

“You heard me,” he said before he took another long swig and swallowing hard. He lowered the bottle and leaned up against the kitchen counter. “And you know I’m right.”

“About kidnapping a bunny?” She felt bewildered. ~ Heather Killough Walden,
344: The Two Coffins
In yonder old cathedral
Two lovely coffins lie;
In one, the head of the state lies dead,
And a singer sleeps hard by.
Once had that King great power
And proudly ruled the land-His crown e'en now is on his brow
And his sword is in his hand.
How sweetly sleeps the singer
With calmly folded eyes,
And on the breast of the bard at rest
The harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are falling
And war distracts the land,
But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot
There in that dead king's hand.
But with every grace of nature
There seems to float along-To cheer again the hearts of men
The singer's deathless song.
~ Eugene Field,
345:Why hadn’t the Woman in Black called for Raphael? Mathilde’s idea that she’d stopped looking for him seemed out of keeping with most ghost
stories; ghosts didn’t change their behavior, did they?
Whatever the reason, Caitlyn was glad of it. Raphael was hers, and she didn’t want to share him. She hated the idea of a long-lost lover roaming
the halls of the castle, looking for him. It meant there was someone else in his life.
She was, she realized, jealous.
That’s stupid! How can I be jealous of a ghost, over a guy who might not even exist?
And yet, there was no other word for what she felt. Since the moment she’d seen Raphael riding in the valley, her heart had claimed him as her
Knight of Cups ~ Lisa Cach,
346:There are three points of view from which a writer can be considered: he may be considered as a storyteller, as a teacher, and as an enchanter. A major writer combines these three — storyteller, teacher, enchanter — but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer...The three facets of the great writer — magic, story, lesson — are prone to blend in one impression of unified and unique radiance, since the magic of art may be present in the very bones of the story, in the very marrow of thought...Then with a pleasure which is both sensual and intellectual we shall watch the artist build his castle of cards and watch the castle of cards become a castle of beautiful steel and glass. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
347:You won't get much with only ten men," Will said, in a reasonable tone of voice. Gundar snorted angrily.
"Ten? I've got twenty-seven men behind me!" There was an angry growl of assent from his men-although Ulf didn't join in, Gundar noticed.
This time, when the Ranger spoke, there was no trace of the pleasant, reasonable tone. Instead, the voice was hard and cold.
"You haven't reached the castle yet," Will said. "I've got twenty-three arrows in my quiver still, and a further dozen in my packsaddle. And you've got several kilometers to go-all within bowshot of the trees there. Bad shot as I am, I should be able to account for more than half your men. Then you'll be facing the garrison with just ten men. ~ John Flanagan,
348:And what happens to daughters whose mothers betray them? They don’t become huggable like Sadie, Taiwo thinks. They don’t become giggly, adorable like Ling. They grow shells. Become hardened. They stop being girls. Though they look like girls and act like girls and flirt like girls and kiss like girls—really, they’re generals, commandos at war, riding out at first light to preempt further strikes. With an army behind them, their talents their horsemen, their brilliance and beauty and anything else they may have at their disposal dispatched into battle to capture the castle, to bring back the Honor. Of course it doesn’t work. For they burn down the village in search of the safety they lost, every time, Taiwo knows. ~ Taiye Selasi,
349:You don’t know what I’m capable of,” said Malfoy more forcefully. “You don’t know what I’ve done!” “Oh yes, I do,” said Dumbledore mildly. “You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts. . . . So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it.” “It has been in it!” said Malfoy vehemently. “I’ve been working on it all year, and tonight —” Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. “Somebody is putting up a good fight,” said Dumbledore conversationally. “But you were saying . . . yes, ~ J K Rowling,
350:At one end of the vast C bitten from the castle a sin­gle great bastion-tower stood, almost intact, five kilometres high, and casting a kilometre-wide shadow across the rum­pled ground in front of the convoy. The walls had tumbled down around the tower, vanishing completely on one side and leaving only a ridge of fractured material barely five hundred metres high on the other. The plant-mass babilia, unique to the fastness and ubiquitous within it, coated all but the smoothest of vertical surfaces with tumescent hanging forests of lime-green, royal blue and pale, rusty orange; only the heights of scarred wall closest to the more actively venting fissures and fumaroles remained untouched by the tenacious vegetation. ~ Iain M Banks,
351:The dinner bell rings, and everyone trots off, Frederick coming in last with his taffy-colored hair and wounded eyes, bootlaces trailing. Werner washes Frederick’s mess tin for him; he shares homework answers, shoe polish, sweets from Dr. Hauptmann; they run next to each other during field exercises. A brass pin weighs lightly on each of their lapels; one hundred and fourteen hobnailed boots spark against pebbles on the trail. The castle with its towers and battlements looms below them like some misty vision of foregone glory. Werner’s blood gallops through his ventricles, his thoughts on Hauptmann’s transceiver, on solder, fuses, batteries, antennas; his boot and Frederick’s touch the ground at the exact same moment. ~ Anthony Doerr,
352:Dear lieutenant, I think we all seduced you, deflected you from a course that might have let you live. Seeking something in the quick of us, searching to secure a kind of love with the provenance of age and land and family, you took over our premises; you presumed to the legacy that was ours, and if you did not see that such assumptions have their own ramifying repercussions, and that the stones demand their own continuity of blood, if you did not understand the gravity of their isolation, the solitude of their trapped state or the hardness of their old responsibility, still you cannot fault the castle or either one of us, or complain that you were led to your own conclusion.
I left the castle; you brought us all back. ~ Iain Banks,
353:Okay you guys need the dope on the real story of the princess and the frog...So once upon a time a beautiful independent confident princess came upon a frog sitting by a pond. The frog said to the princess 'I was once a handsome prince until an evil Witch put a spell on me.'...So the smart-assed frog said 'If you will just kiss me I will turn back into a prince. And then you'll marry me move into the castle with my mother and you can cook for me and clean my clothes have my children and live happy ever after while I go rescue a damsel in distress'...Later that night the princess laughed as she sat down to dinner. 'I don't think so ' she said and dug hungrily into her plate of frog's legs. And she lived happily ever after. ~ Phyllis Curott,
354: The Militiaman
'O warrior with the burnished arms
With bullion cord and tassel
Pray tell me of the lurid charms
Of service and the fierce alarms:
The storming of the castle,
The charge across the smoking field,
The rifles' busy rattle
What thoughts inspire the men who wield
The blade-their gallant souls how steeled
And fortified in battle.'
'Nay, man of peace, seek not to know
War's baleful fascinationThe soldier's hunger for the foe,
His dread of safety, joy to go
To court annihilation.
Though calling bugles blow not now,
Nor drums begin to beat yet,
One fear unmans me, I'll allow,
And poisons all my pleasure: How
If I should get my feet wet!'
~ Ambrose Bierce,
355:Begging your pardon, but you being out at this hour is . . . suspicious.” “I got lured, and then locked out of the castle, after being scared half to death by a walking suit of armor.” Ernie stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small pad of paper, which he immediately opened before he pulled out a pen and sent her a nod. “That sounds like a case of shenanigans to be sure, Miss Plum. Now . . . tell me, what did the suit of armor look like?” “It looked like a suit of armor, of course.” “Was there anything of a distinguishing nature about it?” “It was walking across the room.” Ernie scribbled something into the notebook. “Suspicious indeed, and not something one expects to see when they’re a guest at Ravenwood.” “It ~ Jen Turano,
356:The big system can be pretty overwhelming. We know that we can’t beat them by competing with them. What we can do is build small systems where we live and work that serve our needs as we define us and not as they ‘re defined for us. The big boys in their shining armor are up there on castle walls hurling their thunderbolts. We’re the ants patiently carrying sand a grain at a time from under the castle wall. We work from the bottom up. The knights up there don’t see the ants and don’t know what we’re doing. They’ll figure it out only when the wall begins to fall. It takes time and quiet persistence. Always remember this: They fight with money and we resist with time, and they’re going to run out of money before we run out of time ~ Utah Phillips,
357:I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-toned, old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper’s room in which they foregathered, affected me in spite of my efforts to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase. They seemed to belong to another age, an older age, an age when things spiritual were different from this of ours, less certain; an age when omens and witches were credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their very existence was spectral; the cut of their clothing, fashions born in dead brains. The ornaments and conveniences of the room about them were ghostly — the thoughts of vanished men, which still haunted rather than participated in the world of today. ~ E F Benson,
358:The Landscape"

I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love
is no longer those lilacs and roses whose breath
filled the broad woods, where the sail of a flame
lay at the end of each arrow-straight path.

I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love
is no longer that storm whose white nerve sparked
the castle towers, or left the mind unrhymed,
or flared an instant, just where the road forked.

It is the star struck under my heel in the night.
It is the vvord no book on earth defines.
It is the foam on the wave, the cloud in the sky.

As they age, all things grow rigid and bright.
The streets fall nameless, and the knots untie.
Now, with this landscape, I fix; I shine. ~ Robert Desnos,
359:Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer. Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle--it’s me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less, not now--” not now he knows I’m attacking Horcruxes, Harry finished the sentence in his head.
“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated with a look of dawning wonder. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height.
“We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this--this object.”
“Is that possible?”
“I think so,” said Professor McGonagall dryly, “we teachers are rather good at magic, you know. ~ J K Rowling,
360:She wondered what such a bird would be worth, because in the Castle all beasts were ascribed worth. She had seen James look at a king crown brought in by one of their Asante traders and declare that it was worth four pounds. What about the human beast? How much was he worth? Effia had known, of course, that there were people in the dungeons. People who spoke a different dialect than her, people who had been captured in tribal wars, even people who had been stolen, but she had never thought of where they went from there. She had never thought of what James must think every time he saw them. If he went into the dungeons and saw women who reminded him of her, who looked like her and smelled like her. If he came back to her haunted by what he saw. ~ Yaa Gyasi,
361:Alric! Stop it!" Pickering snapped at him. "You mustn't let the men see you crying!"

Fury flared in Alric, and he spun on the count. "No? No? Look at them! They are dying for me. They are dying on my order! I say they do have a right to see their king! They all have a right to see their king!"

Alric wiped the tears from his cheeks and gathered his reins. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of having my face put in the dirt! I won't stand it. I'm tired of being helpless. That's my city, built by my ancestors! If my people chose to fight, then, by Maribor, I want them to know it's me they fight!"

The prince put on his helm, drew his father's large sword and spurred his horse forward, not at the trench but at the castle gate itself. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
362:The princess had accepted her fate in an effort to make the best of things, but she refused to do so any longer.
It wasn't till she was outside those walls that she'd realized the truth: the only one who could truly break her free was herself. That's why she was back. To claim what was truly hers. Not just the castle, but the province and its throne. Not just for her own happiness, but also for that of her people.
Now was the time to strike. It was why she had traveled so far, risked so much, and found strength that she hadn't known she possessed. Queen Ingrid's popularity had never been strong, but in the last few years, the kingdom had gone from indifference to downright terror. She couldn't allow her people to suffer this way any longer. It was time. ~ Jen Calonita,
363:A Mystic And A Drunk

The Universe turns on an axis.
Let my soul circle around a table
like a beggar, like a planet
rolling in the vast, totally helpless and free.

The knight and the castle move jaggedly
about the chessboard, but they're actually
centered on the king. They circle.

If love is your center, a ring
gets put on your finger.

Something inside the moth
is made of fire.

A mystic touches the annihilating tip
of pure nothing.

A drunkard thinks peeing is absolution.
Lord, take these impurities from me.

The lord replies, First, understand
the nature of impurity. If your key is bent,
the lock will not open.

I fall silent.
King Shams has come.
Always when I close, he opens. ~ Rumi,
364:Belle's mind populated the castle with royalty from all the eras she could imagine:
Recent ones with great powdered wigs and hats in the shapes of fanciful things like ships, great skirts that billowed out, ugly garish makeup on the faces of those who gossiped behind embroidered silk fans.
Renaissance rulers with thick curled collars and poison rings, intellect and conspiracy at every dinner.
Ancient kings and queens in long, heavy dresses and cloaks, wise looks on their faces and solid gold crowns on their heads, innocents in a world they believed to possess unicorns and dragons, and maps whose seas ran off at the edges, beyond where the tygres were.
Of course, maybe around here there were dragons and unicorns. Who knew? They had talking teacups. ~ Liz Braswell,
365:But the argument he lays out before the jury is as clear as a row of Lombardy poplars. In silence, he walks his lifelong partner through old and central principles of jurisprudence, one syllable at a time. Stand your ground. The castle doctrine. Self-help. If you could save yourself, your wife, your child, or even a stranger by burning something down, the law allows you. If someone breaks into your home and starts destroying it, you may stop them however you need to. His few syllables are mangled and worthless. She shakes her head. “I can’t get you, Ray. Say it some other way.” He can find no way to say what so badly needs saying. Our home has been broken into. Our lives are being endangered. The law allows for all necessary force against unlawful and imminent harm. ~ Richard Powers,
366:I don't know where you get off telling everyone what to do. Did I miss the part where you were crowned top turd? I don't want to play the wicked consort of Eric the Evil. Last time I looked, there wasn't a wicked consort clause in my contract." Donna turned to Eric as he stopped by her side. "I can't believe he thinks he can harass me like he does the rest of the poor wretches who work here." She glared at Holgarth. "Why not rent a wig and you can be the wicked consort?"

As one of the castle's poor wretches, Eric didn't offer anything to the conversation because he was too busy picturing Holgarth in a wig. And from there, he went on to imagine Donna in her wicked consort costume - short on cloth with lots of bare skin showing. Things were looking up. ~ Nina Bangs,
367:Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys’ staircase. Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty. He flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Ron watched impatiently. “Harry . . .” “Malfoy’s using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know — aha.” He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with the tip of his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good . . . or Malfoy is anyway.” At once, the Marauder’s Map appeared on the parchment’s surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle’s floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labeled black dots that signified each of the castle’s occupants. ~ J K Rowling,
368:Horses At Midnight Without A Moon"

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun. ~ Jack Gilbert,
369:Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun. ~ Jack Gilbert,
370:I planned a mystical order that should buy or hire the castle, and keep it as a place where its members could retire for a while for contemplation, and where we might establish mysteries like those of Eleusis or Samothrace. ... I had an unshakeable conviction that invisible gates would open, as they opened for Blake, as they opened for Swedenborg, as they opened for Boehme, and that this philosophy would find its manuals of devotion in all imaginative literature..
This idea of Yeats’s is persistently an Outsider-ideal, persistent even in unromantic Outsiders: solitude, retreat, the attempt to order a small corner of the ‘devil-ridden chaos’ to one’s own satisfaction. A Marxist critic would snap: Escapism; and no doubt he would not be entirely wrong, but let us look closer. ~ Colin Wilson,
371: The Bonny Earl Of Murray
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands,
O where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did ye sae!
I bade you bring him wi' you,
But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
Ana the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play'd at the ba';
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a'!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play'd at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he was the Queen's luve!
O lang will his Lady
Look owre the Castle Downe,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town!
~ Anonymous,
372:She had finally come so far that she seemed to be seeing her own life from the uppermost summit of a mountain pass. Now her path led down into the darkening valley, but first she had been allowed to see that in the solitude of the cloister and in the doorway of death someone was waiting for her who had always seen the lives of people the way villages look from a mountain crest. He had seen sin and sorrow, love and hatred in their hearts, the way the wealthy estates and poor hovels, the bountiful acres and the abandoned wastelands are all borne by the same earth. And he had come down among them, his feet had wandered among the lands, stood in the castles and in huts, gathering the sorrows and sins of the rich and the poor, and lifting them high up with him on the cross." (1081) ~ Sigrid Undset,
373:What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. ~ Bram Stoker,
374:We need to think of somewhere else to hide you, somewhere Silas would never discover, and . . .” She stopped talking, her eyes began to gleam, and then she beamed a bright smile Archibald’s way. “We’ll take her to Ravenwood.” Archibald immediately began smiling as well. “That’s an excellent idea.” Looking from one smiling face to the other, Lucetta frowned. “Where, pray tell, is Ravenwood, or more importantly . . . what is Ravenwood, and who owns it?” If anything, Abigail’s smile turned brighter. “Ravenwood is a castle, located in Tarrytown, along the Hudson River, which means it’s not far from the city. The castle is well guarded, comes with its very own moat, and . . . the owner of this castle can be counted on to be discreet, especially since he just happens to be my . . . grandson. ~ Jen Turano,
375:It wasna a man,’ said Andrew Kerr broadly. ‘T’was my aunty. I tellt ye. I’m no risking cauld steel in ma wame for a pittance, unless all that’s mine is well lookit after—’ ‘An old lady,’ said Lord Grey with forbearance, ‘in curling papers and a palatial absence of teeth?’ ‘My aunt Lizzie!’ said Andrew Kerr. ‘She has just,’ said Lord Grey austerely, ‘seriously injured one of my men.’ ‘How?’ The old savage looked interested. ‘From an upper window. The castle was burning, and he was climbing a ladder to offer the lady her freedom. She cracked his head with a chamberpot,’ said Lord Grey distastefully, ‘and retired crying that she would have no need of a jurden in Heaven, as the good Lord had no doubt thought of more convenient methods after the seventh day, when He had had a good rest. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
376:The field mice spent their days scampering through the tall grasses and collecting fairyberries and beanstalk seeds. The stable mice helped themselves to oats and barley from the horse stalls, and built nests of straw from the Pegasus pen. The barn mice sat on the rafters, playing their fiddles and enjoying the grains they'd snatched from the golden goose's coop. The pantry mice were the happiest of all because they spent their days sleeping and their nights gorging on a plentiful supply of delicacies. They were the plumpest of mice, roll-poly critters who slumbered in the pantry during the day, then awoke after the kitchen had closed. A lazy waddle beneath the Castleteria tables would yield a cornucopia of delights- thronecake crumbs, hot cross bun bits, and pieces of pickled-plum tart. ~ Suzanne Selfors,
377:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. ~ Chris Colfer,
378: Home
The road to laughter beckons me,
The road to all that's best;
The home road where I nightly see
The castle of my rest;
The path where all is fine and fair,
And little children run,
For love and joy are waiting there
As soon as day is done.
There is no rich reward of fame
That can compare with this:
At home I wear an honest name,
My lips are fit to kiss.
At home I'm always brave and strong,
And with the setting sun
They find no trace of shame or wrong
In anything I've done.
There shine the eyes that only see
The good I've tried to do;
They think me what I'd like to be;
They know that I am true.
And whether I have lost my fight
Or whether I have won,
I find a faith that I've been right
As soon as day is done.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
379:In the castle of Koraida was found a great quantity of pikes, lances, cuirasses, and other armor ; and its lands were covered with flocks and herds and camels. In dividing the spoil each foot-soldier had one lot, each horseman three ; two for his horse, and one for himself. A fifth part of the whole was set apart for the prophet. The most precious prize in the eyes of Mahomet was Rihana, daughter of Simeon, a wealthy and powerful Jew ; and the most beautiful female of her tribe. He took her to himself, and, having converted her to the faith, added her to the number of his wives. But, though thus susceptible of the charms of the Israelitish women, Mahomet became more and more vindictive in his hatred of the men ; no longer putting faith in their covenants, and suspecting them of the most insidious attempts upon his life. ~ Washington Irving,
380:The small island of Bogoslof, since it was first observed in 1796, has altered its shape and position several times and has even disappeared completely, only to emerge again. The original island was a mass of black rock, sculptured into fantastic, tower-like shapes. Explorers and sealers coming upon it in the fog were reminded of a castle and named it Castle Rock. At the present time there remain only one or two pinnacles of the castle, a long spit of black rocks where sea lions haul out, and a cluster of higher rocks resounding with the cries of thousands of sea birds. Each time the parent volcano erupts, as it has done at least half a dozen times since men have been observing it, new masses of steaming rocks emerge from the heated waters, some to reach heights of several hundred feet before they are destroyed in fresh explosions. ~ Rachel Carson,
381:Very quietly, James slipped out of bed and shrugged into his bathrobe. The stone floor was cool under his feet as he stood and listened, tilting his head. He turned slowly, and as he looked toward the door, the figure there moved. He hadn’t seen it appear, it was simply there, floating, where a moment before there had been darkness. James startled and backed into his bed, almost falling backwards onto it. Then he recognized the ghostly shape. It was the same wispy, white figure he’d seen chase the interloper off the school grounds, the ghostly shape that had come to look like a young man as it came back to the castle. In the darkness of the doorway, the figure seemed much brighter than it had appeared in the morning sunlight. It was wispy and shifting, with only the barest suggestion of its human shape. It spoke again without moving. ~ G Norman Lippert,
382:Pushing to his feet in an effort to avoid some of the water, Bram gave his wet and distinctly smelly dog a pat before he straightened, his breath becoming lodged in his throat when Miss Plum began walking toward him. Regret settled in as the thought struck him that there was really no way to avoid finally making her acquaintance even while smelling much like his dog. Summoning up a smile, he was about to offer her a greeting when a trace of smoke coming from one of the castle towers captured his attention. Knowing full well there was only one reasonable explanation for the smoke, he stepped toward Miss Plum just as a yell split the air. “Watch out below.” As the roar of a cannon sounded, Bram did the only thing that sprang to mind. He yanked Miss Plum close to him, locked his arms around her slender body, and . . . jumped back into the moat. ~ Jen Turano,
383:And while he waited in the castle court,
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang
Clear through the open casement of the hall,
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
That sings so delicately clear, and make
Conjecture of the plumage and the form;
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;
And made him like a man abroad at morn
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend,
Or it may be the labour of his hands,
To think or say, 'There is the nightingale;'
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
'Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me. ~ Alfred Tennyson,
384:Tearing a piece of bread off the loaf, Briec wandered over to the partially open Great Hall doors and looked out into the courtyard. It was extremely early and things were just beginning to stir as the two suns rose. But Briec saw them easy enough. Gods, how could he miss them standing there, saying nothing—and staring at the castle.
Briec slammed the doors shut.
“Briec?” Fearghus asked as he walked up behind him. “What’s going on?”
“Where the hell is that idiot?”
“No. The big blue idiot.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“The Mì-runach are outside.”
“So. They’re probably looking for the big blue idiot.”
“Not the three he brought with him. All of the Mì-runach. They’re standing in our courtyard . . . waiting.”
Fearghus nodded. “All right. We’ll kill all the females first and then kill ourselves. ~ G A Aiken,
385:Here are your choices, as I see them. First, you could go to Hampshire in a cloud of social scorn, and content yourself with the knowledge that at least you didn’t get trapped into a loveless marriage. Or you could marry a man who wants you beyond anything, and live like a queen.” He paused. “And don’t forget the country house and carriage.” Poppy could not contain a smile. “Bribery again.” “I’ll throw in the castle and tiara,” Harry said ruthlessly. “Gowns, furs, a yacht—” “Hush,” Poppy whispered, and touched his lips gently with her fingers, not knowing how else to make him stop. She took a deep breath, hardly able to believe what she was about to say. “I’ll settle for a betrothal ring. A small, simple one.” Harry stared at her as if he were afraid to trust his own ears. “Will you?” “Yes,” Poppy said, her voice a bit suffocated. “Yes, I will marry you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
386:They were relaxing at the top of a waterfall, in a small, still pool where the mountain waters hit an upward slope of folded granite. It was sort of a rounded bathtub, carved out of the rock throughout the centuries by the rushing river, a river so hidden that it was without a name. Just below were the falls, about a 30-foot drop into another, much larger pool of clearest water that was gathered for a respite, a compromise in the river's relentless schedule downward, between split-level decks of flat rock. Further on, the river reanimated and released into a sharp ravine, pulling westward, down through the rugged mountains and faceless forest--the Black Hills National Forest--gaining force until it joined with the rush of the Castle River, near the old Custer Trail, and was swallowed into the Deerfield Reservoir to collect and prepare for the touch of man. ~ Ron Parsons,
387:Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave,” said Hagrid grimly. “Voice carried, didn’ it? ‘Yeh got till midnight ter gimme Potter.’ Knew yeh mus’ be here, knew what mus’ be happenin’. Get down, Fang. So we come ter join in, me an’ Grawpy an’ Fang. Smashed our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy was carryin’ us, Fang an’ me. Told him ter let me down at the castle, so he shoved me through the window, bless him. Not exac’ly what I meant, bu’ — where’s Ron an’ Hermione?” “That,” said Harry, “is a really good question. Come on.” They hurried together along the corridor, Fang lolloping beside them. Harry could hear movement through the corridors all around: running footsteps, shouts; through the windows, he could see more flashes of light in the dark grounds. “Where’re we goin’?” puffed Hagrid, pounding along at Harry’s heels, making the floorboards quake. ~ J K Rowling,
388:The Angevin country begins between Normandy and Brittainy and continues down through Maine and Anjou. In the Middle Ages, this fair and romantic land was dotted with towns and castles of great interest and importance. Here were the castles of Chinon, stretching out like a walled city along a high ridge, here also the famed abbey of Fontevrault where many great figures of English history are buried. Here in the spring and early summer the hedges and fields were yellow with a species of gorse (it still grows in profusion) called the planta genesta. It was an early year of the twelfth century that a handsome young man named Geoffery, son of the Count of Anjou, fell into the habit of wearing a sprig of the yellow bloom in his helmet. This may be called the first stage of the history of the conquering family who came to govern England, and who are called the Plantagenets. ~ Thomas B Costain,
389:When I was stuck in Colnora during the siege, your old friends helped get me out.”

“The Diamond?”

Hadrian nodded. “Price arranged for me to slip away one night in exchange for delivering the letter. He preferred risking my neck rather than one of his boys.”

“What did it say? Who was it from?”

Hadrian shrugged. “How would I know?”

“You didn’t read it?” Royce asked incredulously.

“No, it was for Alric.”

“Do you still have it?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Delivered it to the castle on the way in.”

Royce dropped his face into his hands. “Sometimes, I just …” Royce shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“What’s wrong?” Gwen asked as she joined them.

“Hadrian’s an idiot,” Royce replied, his voice muffled by his hands.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Thank you, Gwen. See? At least she appreciates me. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
390:Picture, for example, in 1077, the humbled Henry IV, supreme head of the Holy Roman Empire and heir to Charlemagne (whom Pope Leo III had crowned emperor in 800), crossing the Alps and forced to wait, in penitence, barefoot in a haircloth shirt in the snow outside the castle at Canossa to make his peace with Gregory VII! Claiming to be "King of kings," Gregory, because of a quarrel with Henry, had declared: "On the part of God omnipotent, I forbid Henry to govern the kingdoms of Italy and Germany. I absolve all subjects from every oath they have taken and I excommunicate every person who shall serve him as king." Henry had no defense against that superweapon of the popes. Thus was established that magnificent "whore" portrayed by John in Revelation 17—headquartered in a city located upon seven hills (verse 9) and which "reigneth over the kings of the earth" (verse 18). One eighteenth-century ~ Dave Hunt,
391:Tell me the story of the locket.'
'Once upon a time, my lord, in the best and the worst of all possible words, a princess fell in love with a young man who loved to draw pictures.'
'Like Ducon.'
'Very like your cousin. Every day for a year, she gave him a rose. She would pick it at dawn from her father's gardens and then take it to the highest place in the castle, a place so high that everyone had forgotten about it except for the doves that nested beneath the broken roof. There, she had found a secret door between the best and the worst of the worlds. Every day, they would meet on the threshold of that door. She would give him a rose, and he would give her a drawing of the city he lived in. They loved each other very much, but of course they could never marry, because they were from different worlds: she was a princess and he an artist who had to paint tavern signs to keep himself fed. ~ Patricia A McKillip,
392:Mendanbar took a deep breath. “You could stay here. At the castle, I mean. With me.” This wasn’t coming out at all the way he had wanted it to, but it was too late to stop now. He hurried on, “As Queen of the Enchanted Forest, if you think you would like that. I would.”
“Would you, really?”
“Yes,” Mendanbar said, looking down. “I love you, and—and—”
“And you should have said that to begin with,” Cimorene interrupted, putting her arms around him.
Mendanbar looked up, and the expression on her face made his heart begin to pound.
“Just to be sure I have this right,” Cimorene went on with a blinding smile, “did you just ask me to marry you?”
“Yes,” Mendanbar said. “At least, that’s what I meant.”
“Good. I will.”
Mendanbar tried to find something to say, but he was too happy to think. He leaned forward two inches and kissed Cimorene, and discovered that he didn’t need to say anything at all. ~ Patricia C Wrede,
393:WON!” They beamed up at him as he passed; there was a scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head got rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the crowd squeezed itself into the entrance hall and out of sight. Harry and Hermione watched them go, beaming, until the last echoing strains of “Weasley Is Our King” died away. Then they turned to each other, their smiles fading. “We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” said Harry. “Yes, all right,” said Hermione wearily. “I’m not in any hurry . . .” They climbed the steps together. At the front doors both instinctively looked back at the Forbidden Forest. Harry was not sure whether it was his imagination or not, but he rather thought he saw a small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the treetops in the distance, almost as though the tree in which they had been nesting had just been pulled up by the roots. ~ J K Rowling,
394:Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. ~ Bram Stoker,
395: The Castle Ruins At Balaklava
These castles, whose remains are strewn in heaps for miles,
Once graced and guarded you, Crimea the ungrateful!
Today they sit upon the hills, each like a great skull
In which reptiles reside or men worse than reptiles.
Let’s climb a tower, search for crests upon worn tiles,
For an inscription or a hero’s name, the fateful
Bane of armies now forgotten by the faithful,
A wizened beetle wrapped in vines below the aisles.
Here Greeks wrought Attic ornaments upon the walls,
From which Italians would cast Mongols into chains,
And where the Mecca-bound once stopped to pray and beg.
Today above the tombs the shadow of night falls,
The black-winged buzzards fly like pennants over plains,
As if towards a city ever touched by plague.
— translated from the Polish by Leo Yankevich
first appeared in the Sarmatian Review
~ Adam Mickiewicz,
396:That’s quite okay, sir,” Pete said with a smile. “I don’t only like Patsy Cline.” Beatriz caught that sir in midair, like a bird, and studied it in her mind. For some, a sir in this situation might have been used for an equally rude effect, sarcastically spitting politeness at the party who had wronged them. For others, it might have been automatic, someone who said sir so often that it didn’t mean anything at all. For Pete, it was launched with deference. I’m no threat, that sir declared, with a peacekeeping smile. You’re still king of the castle. Antonia’s dogs were always fighting among one another, and the battles ended when one rolled onto its back to show it had no fight in it. That was Pete’s sir in this particular exchange. Beatriz found this unfair, as Pete had done nothing wrong, but also frustrating, as Pete would think Joaquin was always petulant, which was far from the truth. The kindness made Joaquin crosser, ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
397:That evening after tea the four children all managed to get down to the beach again and get their shoes and stockings off and feel the sand between their toes. But the next day was more solemn. For then, in the Great Hall of Cair Paravel--that wonderful hall with the ivory roof and the west door all hung with peacock’s feathers and the eastern door which opens right onto the sea, in the presence of all their friends and to the sound of trumpets, Aslan solemnly crowned them and led them onto the four thrones amid deafening shouts of, “Long Live King Peter! Long Live Queen Susan! Long Live King Edmund! Long Live Queen Lucy!”
“Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen. Bear it well, Sons of Adam! Bear it well, Daughters of Eve!” said Aslan.
And through the eastern door, which was wide open, came the voices of the mermen and the mermaids swimming close to the castle steps and singing in honor of their new Kings and Queens. ~ C S Lewis,
398:There were stalls nestled around the castle the way the lights were, not in rows but in odd spots, as if the stalls had grown there or alighted on random places like birds. There was one stall with ringing chimes that was set halfway up a ruined wall, so the customers had to climb sliding pieces of slate to get to it. There were more stalls set in the grassy hollows among the stones and nestled into the corners of the walls. One woman had actually turned a ruined wall into her stall, brightly colored jars arranged on the jagged, protruding shards of stone.

All through the fragments of a lost castle lit by magic moved the people of the Goblin Market. There was a man hanging up knives alongside wind chimes, which made dangerous and beautiful music as they rang together in the sea breeze. There was a boy who looked about twelve stirring something in a cauldron with a rich-smelling cloud handing over it, and bark cups ranged along his stall. ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,
399:Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to understand — the trouble was, there didn’t seem to be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harry looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly) by Ron. They were hampered, of course, by the fact that they weren’t allowed to wander off on their own but had to move around the castle in a pack with the other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students seemed glad that they were being shepherded from class to class by teachers, but Harry found it very irksome. One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere of terror and suspicion. Draco Malfoy was strutting around the school as though he had just been appointed Head Boy. Harry didn’t realize what he was so pleased about until the Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Malfoy, Harry overheard him gloating to Crabbe and Goyle. “I always thought Father might be the one who ~ J K Rowling,
400:The castle’s chapel has been remade. The glass-and-gold chandelier still floats in the center of the room, the wires holding it up too thin to be seen by candlelight. All these electric miracles. The windows depicting the angels praising Our Lady have remained intact, as have the panels to Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome. The others—and the enameled paintings in the cupola—have been replaced and reimagined according to the New Scripture. There is the Almighty speaking to the Matriarch Rebecca in the form of a dove. There is the Prophet Deborah proclaiming the Holy Word to the disbelieving people. There—although she protested—is Mother Eve, the symbolic tree behind her, receiving the message from the Heavens and extending her hand filled with lightning. In the center of the cupola is the hand with the all-seeing eye at its heart. That is the symbol of God, Who watches over each of us, and Whose mighty hand is outstretched to both the powerful and the enslaved. ~ Naomi Alderman,
401:When I was a kid, I just read and read. We were lucky enough to have gone to England and had a whole bunch of Penguin Puffins books, like The Land of Green Ginger by Noel Langley, which is hilarious. I would love to be able to write a book like that, but I don't know that I have a humorous bone in my body when it comes to writing. Once on a Time by A.A. Milne. I read a lot of old, old fantasy stuff. The Carbonelbooks by Barbara Sleigh. Then when I got a little older I loved Zilpha Keatley Snyder. I was a big fan of romance and when I got a little bit older I would read a Harlequin romance or a Georgette Heyer novel and then David Copperfield, and then another genre book and then Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy. I was that kind of reader. One book that I loved was I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. I loved voice and that book had it in spades. And then of course I grew into loving Jane Eyre. ~ Franny Billingsley,
402:When you read The Arabian Nights you accept Islam. You accept the fables woven by generations as if they were by one single author or, better still, as if they had no author. And in fact they have one and none. Something so worked on, so polished by generations is no longer associated with and individual. In Kafka's case, it's possible that his fables are now part of human memory. What happened to Quixote could happen to to them. Let's say that all the copies of Quixote, in Spanish and in translation, were lost. The figure of Don Quixote would remain in human memory. I think that the idea of a frightening trial that goes on forever, which is at the core of The Castle and The Trial (both books that Kafka, of course, never wanted to publish because he knew they were unfinished), is now grown infinite, is now part of human memory and can now be rewritten under different titles and feature different circumstances. Kafka's work now forms a part of human memory. ~ Jorge Luis Borges,
403:After picking up the lamp, she went to Joyce, who was clutching her injured shoulder. I should leave you here, she thought. She was unaware she had said the words aloud until Joyce replied.
"You can't let me die!"
"You're not going to die." Disgusted, terrified, Sara removed her own petticoat, wadded it up, and pressed it firmly against the wound to staunch the blood. Joyce screamed like an enraged cat, her eyes slitted and demonic. Sara's ears rang from the piercing cry.
"Be quiet, you bitch!" Sara snapped. "Not another sound!" Suddenly her entire body was filled with furious energy. She felt strong enough to push down a stone wall with her bare hands. She went to the crumbling entrance of the castle and saw that the hack driver was still waiting, craning his neck curiously. "You!" she shouted. "Come here right away, or you won't get a bloody shilling of what she promised!" She turned back to Joyce, her blue eyes blazing. "And you... give me back my necklace. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
404:Summer, and hot. Full Earth had come to the land like a vampire lover that year, killing the land and the crops of the tenant farmers, turning the fields of the castle-city of Gilead white and sterile. In the west, some miles distant and near the borders that were the end of the civilized world, fighting had already begun. All reports were bad, and all of them paled to insignificance before the heat that rested over this place of the center. Cattle lolled empty-eyed in the pens of the stockyards. Pigs grunted lustlessly, unmindful of sows and sex and knives whetted for the coming fall. People whined about taxes and conscription, as they always did; but there was an apathy beneath the empty passion-play of politics. The center had frayed like a rag rug that had been washed and walked on and shaken and hung and dried. The thread that held the last jewel at the breast of the world was unraveling. Things were not holding together. The earth drew in its breath in the summer of the coming eclipse. ~ Stephen King,
405:The castle was as silent as some pole-axed monster. Inert, breathless, spread-eagled. It was a night that seemed to prove by the consolidation of its darkness and its silence the hopelessness of any further dawn. There was no such thing as dawn. It was an invention of the night's or of the old-wives of the night - a fable, immemorially old - recounted century after century in the eternal darkness; retold and retold to the gnomic children in the tunnels and the caves of Gormenghast - a tale of another world where such things happened, where stones and bricks and ivy stems and iron could be seen as well as touched and smelt, could be lit and coloured, and where at certain times a radiance shone like honey from the east and the blackness was scaled away, and this thing they called dawn arose above the woods as though the fable had materialized, the legend come to life. It was a night with a bull's mouth. But the mouth was bound and gagged. It was a night with enormous eyes, but they were hooded. ~ Mervyn Peake,
406:At first the only people who cheered were those who had been warned by Bern’s messenger and knew what was happening and wanted it to happen. But then all the children joined in because they liked a procession and had seen very few. And then all the schoolboys joined in because they also liked processions and felt that the more noise and disturbance there was the less likely they would be to have any school that morning. And then all the old women put their heads out of doors and windows and began chattering and cheering because it was a king, and what is a governor compared with that? And all the young women joined in for the same reason and also because Caspian and Drinian and the rest were so handsome. And then all the young men came to see what the young women were looking at, so that by the time Caspian reached the castle gates, nearly the whole town was shouting; and where Gumpas sat in the castle, muddling and messing about with accounts and forms and rules and regulations, he heard the noise. ~ C S Lewis,
407:You’ll get paid. I’ll have my uncle set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure.”

“Of course not.” The prince nodded.

“And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?” Royce asked. Alric stared at him. “One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?”

“Oh please, aren’t you being just a tad bit too cautious now?”

“No such thing,” Royce replied.

“Look!” Myron shouted suddenly, pointing at the stable.

All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.

“There’s a brown horse!” the monk said in amazement. “I didn’t know they came in brown!”

“By Mar, monk!” Alric shook his head in disbelief, a gesture Royce and Hadrian mirrored.

“Well, I didn’t,” Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement, however, was still evident when he added, “What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one. ~ Michael J Sullivan,
408:I let myself into the cellar, locked the door behind me. The cellar was cold. I found the whisky, let myself out of the cellar and locked it, turned all the lights out, gave Mrs McSpadden the bottle, accepted a belated new-year kiss from her, then made my way out through the kitchen and the corridor and the crowded hall where the music sounded loud and people were laughing, and out through the now almost empty entrance hall and down the steps of the castle and down the driveway and down to Gallanach, where I walked along the esplanade - occasionally having to wave to say 'Happy New Year' to various people I didn't know - until I got to the old railway pier and then the harbour, where I sat on the quayside, legs dangling, drinking my whisky and watching a couple of swans glide on black, still water, to the distant sound of highland jigs coming from the Steam Packet Hotel, and singing and happy-new-year shouts echoing in the streets of the town, and the occasional sniff as my nose watered in sympathy with my eyes. ~ Iain Banks,
409:What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had some many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow, but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall. ~ Bram Stoker,
410:Our plan depended on the Renselaeus warriors being fast and accurate and brave, for they were as outnumbered as Bran and I had been up in the mountains.
I was also, therefore, intensely aware that my life was now in the hands of people I had considered enemies not two dawns ago. Did they still consider me one?
I tried to calm my nerves by laughing at myself; for someone who so recently had tried her best to ride to her death, my innards were a pit of snakes, and my palms were sweaty despite the rain. Bran was alive, I was alive, and suddenly I wanted to stay that way. I wanted to go home and clean out the castle and replant Mama’s garden. I wanted to see Oria and Julen and Khesot again, and I wanted to walk on the high peaks and dance with the Hill Folk on long summer nights, miming age-old stories to the windborne music…
I blinked. Had I just heard a reed pipe?
I lifted my head and listened, heard nothing but the thud of hooves and clatter of our accoutrements, and the soft rain in the leaves overhead. ~ Sherwood Smith,
411:It took the rats a long time to realize they were better off not sprinting straight into the courtyard—rats are not known for their tactical sense. Really rats aren’t known for much, except for being numerous and dying easily. Or at least they died easily that day, even after they started taking cover in the surrounding buildings and trying to snipe at Barley. He was well positioned in the dark, and at this point the mounds of corpses he had made acted as cover. It took twenty minutes for one of the cleverer rodents to remember the heavy artillery, and another twenty to wheel one out from its position on the battlements. They wasted a lot of ammo finding the proper range, though they did a good job of destroying large sections of the castle. And in the meantime Barley continued his work, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat. And to find an equal to his tally, to do that bloody arithmetic—if one was inclined to do so, if one’s mind ran in that sort of direction—one would have needed to compare him against disease, and time, and heartbreak. ~ Daniel Polansky,
412:You’re the smartest girl I know. You can’t help knowing everything and being constantly brilliant—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I kissed her lips again, but after several moments, she pulled back slightly.

“Hey,” she murmured. “There are people in the house.”

“There are always people in the house,” I reminded her. “That’s why we escaped up here to the castle tower. Escape plan number . . . hell, I don’t know. I lost count. We haven’t had to come up with some dreamy escape plan in a while.”

Sydney trailed her fingers down the side of my face. “That’s because we’re living it, Adrian. This is the only escape plan we need.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, propping myself up on one elbow. I tried to put on a thoughtful, speculative expression. “Because there are things that could be tweaked. Like a bigger house. Or maybe—”

“Adrian,” she interrupted. “Didn’t you just say I’m brilliant and know everything? Then trust me on this.”

“Always,” I said, letting her pull me back down to her. “Always. ~ Richelle Mead,
413:Del Ricci is, he’s prepared to act as Santa Claus an’ get the bleedin’ ship back for us.” His small leathery face was puckered with bewilderment as he shook his head and said, “Stands ter reason a bloke’d want payment for a thing like that, especially in this God-forsaken country. But there ain’t no point in our worrying about it like, is there? I mean, we ain’t got nothink to lose.” He was right there. The only thing I’d got to lose was my life—or my liberty if we were arrested for attempting to seize by force something that really belonged to us. I had no illusions about what was going to happen. The Little Octopus wasn’t taking an interest in us out of kindness. This was gang warfare and the party wasn’t likely to be a picnic. We were at the Castello Nuovo shortly before midnight. It was almost cool with a slight breeze coming in from the sea. The great square bulk of the castle crouched black against the moonlit waters of Naples Bay, and beyond it the dim outline of Vesuvius was raised towards the sky. I glanced down at Monique, ~ Hammond Innes,
414:Gormenghast, that is, the main massing of the original stone, taken by itself would have displayed a certain ponderous architectural quality were it possible to have ignored the circumfusion of those mean dwellings that swarmed like an epidemic around its outer walls. They sprawled over the sloping arch, each one half way over its neighbour until, held back by the castle ramparts, the innermost of these hovels laid hold on the great walls, clamping themselves thereto like limpets to a rock. These dwellings, by ancient law, were granted this chill intimacy with the stronghold that loomed above them. Over their irregular roofs would fall throughout the seasons, the shadows of time-eaten buttresses, of broken and lofty turrets, and, most enormous of all, the shadow of the Tower of Flints. This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow. ~ Mervyn Peake,
415:There was a pub looking out over the graveyard. The Queen’s Arms, where Pünd had stayed, was actually called the King’s Head. The village noticeboard where Joy had posted her notice of infidelity was on one side of the square. The village shop and the bakery – it was called the Pump House – was on the other. The castle, which cast a shadow over Dr Redwing’s house, and which must have been built around the same time as the one I had seen in Framlingham, was a short distance away. There was even a Daphne Road. In the book it had been Neville Brent’s address but in the real world it was Alan’s sister who lived there. The house was very much as he had described it. I wondered what this meant. Claire Jenkins had been unable to see me the day before but had agreed to meet me at lunchtime. I got there early and strolled around the village, following the main road all the way down to the River Alde. The river doesn’t exist in Alan’s book – it’s been replaced by the main road to Bath. Pye Hall is somewhere over to the left, which would in ~ Anthony Horowitz,
416:This trade must stop.”
“I can take no responsibility for any such measure,” said Gumpas.
“Very well, then,” answered Caspian, “we relieve you of your office. My Lord Bern, come here.” And before Gumpas quite realized what was happening, Bern was kneeling with his hands between the King’s hands and taking the oath to govern the Lone Islands in accordance with the old customs, rights, usages and laws of Narnia. And Caspian said, “I think we have had enough of governors,” and made Bern a Duke, the Duke of the Lone Islands.
“As for you, my Lord,” he said to Gumpas, “I forgive you your debt for the tribute. But before noon tomorrow you and yours must be out of the castle, which is now the Duke’s residence.”
“Look here, this is all very well,” said one of Gumpas’s secretaries, “but suppose all you gentlemen stop play-acting and we do a little business. The question before us really is--”
“The question is,” said the Duke, “whether you and the rest of the rabble will leave without a flogging or with one. You may choose which you prefer. ~ C S Lewis,
417:I am a harmless old seller of apples," she said, in a voice more appropriate for the opening of hostilities in a middle-range war. "Pray let me past, dearie." The last word had knives in it.
"No-one must enter the castle," said one of the guards. "Orders of the duke."
Granny shrugged. The apple-seller gambit had never worked more than once in the entire history of witchcraft, as far as she knew, but it was traditional.
"I know you, Champett Poldy," she said. "I recall I laid out your grandad and I brought you into the world." She glanced at the crowds, which had regathered a little way off, and turned back to the guard, whose face was already a mask of terror. She leaned a little closer, and said, "I gave you your first good hiding in this valley of tears and by all the gods if you cross me now I will give you your last."
There was a soft metallic noise as the spear fell out of the man's fearful fingers. Granny reached and gave the trembling man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"But don't worry about it," she added. "Have an apple. ~ Terry Pratchett,
418:The magicked dress danced over to the princess. Despite her misgivings, she stood up to receive it- it would have been rude not to. The dress easily smoothed itself over her. Dark green velvet skirts, full and soft, twirled around down to her ankles. Golden buttons fastened themselves up the placket on the bodice and over the elegant, tight sleeves. From her elbows, wisps of dark green mist flowed to the ground for tippets. A collar around her neck drifted out into a cape of the same material.
"Truly, you are the most beautiful princess in the world," a fairy breathed.
Aurora Rose looked at herself in the mirror of dewdrops. She was indeed the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Long neck, golden hair, wide violet eyes, narrow waist, lips perfectly pink and rosy.
She turned, just a little bit, to see how her figure looked from a different angle. The green velvet flowed softly and majestically, making delicious little noises when its folds rippled. As talented as the castle seamstresses were, the princess had never worn anything as elegant or perfect as this. ~ Liz Braswell,
419: Lullaby; By The Sea
Fair is the castle up on the hill-Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair, and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and to me
In this lowly home beside the sea-Hushaby, sweet my own!
On yonder hill is store of wealth-Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revellers drink to a little one's health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away-Hushaby, sweet my own!
See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;
Oh, see them not and make no cry
Till the angels of death have passed us by-Hushaby, sweet my own!
Ah, little they reck of you and me-Hushaby, sweet my own!
In our lonely home beside the sea;
They seek the castle up on the hill,
And there they will do their ghostly will-Hushaby, O my own!
Here by the sea a mother croons
"Hushaby, sweet my own!"
In yonder castle a mother swoons
While the angels go down to the misty deep,
Bearing a little one fast asleep-Hushaby, sweet my own!
~ Eugene Field,
420:Where is he?” she demanded, though she wasn’t too worried about the answer. Paris and Zacharel were friends despite their differences, and Wrath had yet to make a peep.
“I took him to the castle and dropped him on the bridge.”
Reevaluation time. Paris and Zacharel were not friends on any level. Wrath, on the other hand, must think angels could do no wrong. “Why would you do that?” Sure, Paris would be carried inside and locked up. Sure, he would escape, and he would be fine. But none of that mattered to her just then. Fury rose, dark and hot and dangerous.
Calm down. Before she whipped out that crystal blade Paris had given her and went to town on angel flesh. She’d so had enough of males and their abuse of supernatural abilities.
Zacharel blinked as if the answer should be obvious to one and all. “That, as you called it, is what one male does to another when they are arguing.”
“No. No, it’s not.���
His lips edged down in the slightest of frowns. “That is what your Paris did to William of the Dark only this morn.”
Well, she had no comeback for that, did she? ~ Gena Showalter,
421:For the next hour, the subject of Pandora's board game business was discarded as the group worked on the sandcastle. They paused at intervals to drink thirstily from jugs of cold water and lemonade that had been sent down from the house. Pandora threw herself into the project with enthusiasm, consulting with Justin, who had decided the castle must have a moat, square corner towers, a front gatehouse with a drawbridge, and battlement walls from which the occupants could drop scalding water or molten tar onto the advancing enemy.
Gabriel, who'd been instructed to dig the moat, stole frequent glances at Pandora, who had enough energy for ten people. Her face glowed beneath her battered straw hat, which she had managed to pry away from Ajax. She was sweaty and covered in sand, a few escaped locks of hair trailing over her neck and back. She played with the unselfconscious ease of a child, this woman of radical thoughts and ambitions. She was beautiful. Complex. Frustrating. He'd never met a woman who was so wholly and resolutely herself.
What the devil was he going to do about her? ~ Lisa Kleypas,
422:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. “The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left,” she said. “He did?” Alex asked. “It’s all about the keywords,” Mother Goose said. “I used to be friends with a sultan who enjoyed the hookah, too. Lester, I’m going to need you to carry me the rest of the way – I’m awfully tired. ~ Chris Colfer,
423:We’ll burn those old clothes, my lady--they’re ruined.” And she pointed to where she’d laid out a long, heavy cotton shirt, and one of the blue and black-and-white tunics, and a pair of leggings. Renselaeus’s colors.
“I don’t mind putting that dress back on, dirty or not,” I said. “I’m used to dirt.”
She gave me a friendly shrug but shook her head. “Orders.”
I considered that as I rinsed the last of the sandsoap from my hair and twisted it to get the water out. Orders from whom? Once again my mind filled with recent memories. More awake now, I knew that the rescue at Chovilun had been no dream. Was it possible that the Marquis had seen the justice of our cause and had switched sides? The escort, the humane treatment--surely that meant I was being sent home. Once again I felt relief and gratitude. As soon as I got to the castle I’d write a fine letter of thanks. No, I’d get Oria to write down my words, I decided, picturing the elegant Marquis. At least as embarrassing as had been the idea of waking up in his arms again was the idea of his trying to read my terrible handwriting and worse spelling. ~ Sherwood Smith,
424:When we remember we are queens from another kingdom, then the kings in this one will wake up at last and honor our presence and open the gates. We won't storm the castle walls; we will melt the castle walls. Kings will then set a table for us to feast at instead of tossing us bones. They will recognize us when we recognize ourselves. We come bearing gifts from another realm. We bring illumination when our minds are illuminated. We are only visiting here, but our visit is an honor, a mitzvah, and the entire earth kingdom is blessed by our presence. Wake up, damn it, and thank the stars. We have been playing so small and the crown is so huge. We will not wear it until we expand our heads.

Don't your get it? Can't you see? As we change our minds, we will change the world. And until we do, we will remain where we are. And all the laws and all the bashing and all the silly, childish, petty political arguments will continue for years, and for more years beyond, until women remember, followed by men, that a woman is a miracle and her heart lies in God. She is here to love God, passionately and truly... ~ Marianne Williamson,
425:The Great Fires"

Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
also change everything to a newness
at first. Passion is clearly the path
but does not bring us to love.
It opens the castle of our spirit
so that we might find the love which is
a mystery hidden there.
Love is one of many great fires.
Passion is a fire made of many woods,
each of which gives off its special odor
so we can know the many kinds
that are not love. Passion is the paper
and twigs that kindle the flames
but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
because it tries to be love.
Love is eaten away by appetite.
Love does not last, but it is different
from the passions that do not last.
Love lasts by not lasting.
Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
for his sins. Love allows us to walk
in the sweet music of our particular heart. ~ Jack Gilbert,
426: Isaiah Beethoven
They told me I had three months to live,
So I crept to Bernadotte,
And sat by the mill for hours and hours
Where the gathered waters deeply moving
Seemed not to move:
O world, that's you!
You are but a widened place in the river
Where Life looks down and we rejoice for her
Mirrored in us, and so we dream
And turn away, but when again
We look for the face, behold the low-lands
And blasted cotton-wood trees where we empty
Into the larger stream!
But here by the mill the castled clouds
Mocked themselves in the dizzy water;
And over its agate floor at night
The flame of the moon ran under my eyes
Amid a forest stillness broken
By a flute in a hut on the hill.
At last when I came to lie in bed
Weak and in pain, with the dreams about me,
The soul of the river had entered my soul,
And the gathered power of my soul was moving
So swiftly it seemed to be at rest
Under cities of cloud and under
Spheres of silver and changing worlds -Until I saw a flash of trumpets
Above the battlements over Time!
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
427:I have to tell you about these things from the past, because they are so important. The really important things usually lie in the distant past. And until you know about them, if you'll forgive my saying so, you will always to some extent a mere newcomer in my life.

When I was at High School my favourite pastime was walking. Or rather, loitering. If we are talking about my adolescence, it's the more accurate word. Systematically, one by one, I explored all the districts of Pest. I relished the special atmosphere of every quarter and every street. Even now I can still find the same delight in houses that I did then. In this respect I've never grown up. Houses have so much to say to me. For me, they are what Nature used to be to the poets - or rather, what the poets thought of as Nature.

But best of all I loved the Castle Hill District of Buda. I never tired of its ancient streets. Even in those days old things attracted me more than new ones. For me the deepest truth was found only in things suffused with the lives of many generations, which hold the past as permanently as mason Kelemen's wife buried in the high tower of Deva. ~ Antal Szerb,
428:All eyes flew to the entrance.
A great gray stallion reared up in the doorway, its breath frosting the air with puffs of steam. It was a scene from every fairy-tale romance she'd ever read: the handsome prince bursting into the castle astride a magnificent stallion, ablaze with desire and honor as he'd declared his undying love before all and sundry. Her heart swelled with joy.
Then her brow puckered as she scrutinized her "prince." Well, it was almost like a fairy tale. Except this prince was dressed in nothing but a drenched and muddy tartan with blood on his face and hands and war braids plaited at his temples. Although determination glittered in his gaze, a declaration of undying love didn't appear to be his first priority.
"Jillian!" he roared.
Her knees buckled. His voice brought her violently to life. Everything in the room receded and there was only Grimm, blue eyes blazing, his massive frame filling the doorway. He was majestic, towering, and ruthless. Here was her fierce warrior ready to battle the world to gain her love.
He urged Occam into the crowd, making his way toward the altar.
"Grimm," she whispered. ~ Karen Marie Moning,
429:This is the story of a boy named Pete Coutinho, who had a spell put on him. Some people might have called it a curse. I don't know. It depends on a lot of things, on whether you've got gipsy blood, like old Beatriz Sousa, who learned a lot about magic from the wild gitana tribe in the mountains beyond Lisbon, and whether you're satisfied with a fisherman's life in Cabrillo.

Not that a fisherman's life is a bad one, far from it. By day you go out in the boats that rock smoothly across the blue Gulf waters, and at night you can listen to music and drink wine at the Shore Haven or the Castle or any of the other taverns on Front Street. What more do you want? What more is there?

And what does any sensible man, or any sensible boy, want with that sorcerous sort of glamor that can make everything incredibly bright and shining, deepening colors till they hurt, while wild music swings down from stars that have turned strange and alive? Pete shouldn't have wanted that, I suppose, but he did, and probably that's why there happened to him - what did happen. And the trouble began long before the actual magic started working.

("Before I Wake...") ~ Henry Kuttner,
430:In the twelfth century, the vast wealth of Weinsberg Castle lay in peril.15 Enemy forces besieged the stone fortress and threatened the riches that lay within. The inhabitants stood no chance of defending themselves against such a great horde, and the opposing forces demanded a full and complete surrender. If the occupants would agree to give up their wealth and the men would give up their lives, the women and children would be spared. After consultation, the women of Weinsberg Castle asked for one provision: they asked to leave with as many possessions as they could carry. If the opposing forces would agree to this one request, the men inside would lay down their arms and hand over the castle’s riches. Fully aware of the wealth of riches loaded within the castle, the enemy forces agreed. After all, how much could these women take? Finally, the castle gates opened, and the sight that emerged elicited tears from even the most calloused soldiers. Every woman carried her husband on her back. How many of those rescued men were perfect? Not one. But every one of those imperfect men meant more to their wives than anything they owned. Where is your greatest wealth? ~ Gary L Thomas,
431:A falcon. I can see that. I thought you said nothing lived here?”
Sand’s face went blank. “There was nothing alive, except for me, until Merlin. And then you.”
Perrotte bit back her exasperation, and said simply, “Go on.”
He twined his blunt-tipped fingers together, staring down at them. “I, erm. I found the falcon in the mews.” “So, it’s not true that there was nothing alive in the castle?”
“The truth is . . . Well, the truth is the truth, and thus worth telling, but sometimes truths are so complicated that it’s exhausting to get them out in the right order.” He glanced up at her. That sounded like an evasion if ever she’d heard one. She raised an eyebrow.
“The falcon was dead!” Sand blurted out. “Stuffed and mounted, and then also damaged in the sundering. I mended him, and put him on the mantel, so I’d have something to talk to. But a couple days before you—you came upstairs—” He gestured helplessly at the bird, who stopped stripping water from its feathers just long enough to glare at the humans. Perrotte stared. “The bird came to life,” she whispered. “After you put it to rights, this falcon came to life. Just like me.”
“Well . . . ~ Merrie Haskell,
432: The Castle
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true....
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.
How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.
~ Edwin Muir,
433:Liam had seen warriors playing chess, and started to pepper me with questions about the rules. As the dishes were removed, nothing would satisfy him but that we play a game. "I know your memory is not like ours," he spoke eagerly as he pulled a wooden box out from under the platform. "So I bartered for this."

He pulled out the first piece with a flourish and pressed it into my hand. I studied it as he set the rest out on the board. The carving was amazing. It was a fierce warrior of the Plains on a galloping horse, poised to fling a lance at his opponent. But it was plain wood, with no color distinction.

Then I glanced at the board and realized that it wouldn't be a problem telling the pieces apart. One side was the Firelanders, clearly, lean and fierce warriors of both sexes, armed to the teeth. The others were all chubby city-dwellers, unarmored, with no weapons, cowering in fear of their attackers. Even the castles looked afraid somehow.

I arched an eyebrow at Liam, and he had the grace to look embarrassed. "The set is well carved," he offered as if in apology.

I chuckled. "Well, let's just see how you fare against me, Warlord. ~ Elizabeth Vaughan,
434:After almost two hours, the phone rang. I could guess who it was.
"Hello, Blix," I said before he could say anything. "Adding kidnapping to your long list of felonies?"
"We prefer to think of it as 'vacationing at the specific invitation of His Majesty," replied Blix. "Open the top drawer of the bureau."
I did so, and found a contract for Kazam to concede the competition, with all the details that Blix had already outlined. The document had been prepared by a law firm in Financia and registered with the Ununited Kingdoms Supreme Court, so even if King Snodd had wanted to reverse the deal, he couldn't.
"It's all there," said Blix. "I knew my or the King's word wouldn't be good enough, so I made it official. Sign it and your vacation in the North Tower is over."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll stay there until six Mondays from now, and we'll have Kazam for nothing."
"Are you in the castle watching the top of the North Tower at the moment?"
"I might be."
I ripped the phone from the wall and tossed it out the open window. The telephone took almost five seconds to hit the ground. It was a pointless gesture, but very satisfying. ~ Jasper Fforde,
435:WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? The lessons of market history are clear. Styles and fashions in investors’ evaluations of securities can and often do play a critical role in the pricing of securities. The stock market at times conforms well to the castle-in-the-air theory. For this reason, the game of investing can be extremely dangerous. Another lesson that cries out for attention is that investors should be very wary of purchasing today’s hot “new issue.” Most initial public offerings underperform the stock market as a whole. And if you buy the new issue after it begins trading, usually at a higher price, you are even more certain to lose. Investors would be well advised to treat new issues with a healthy dose of skepticism. Certainly investors in the past have built many castles in the air with IPOs. Remember that the major sellers of the stock of IPOs are the managers of the companies themselves. They try to time their sales to coincide with a peak in the prosperity of their companies or with the height of investor enthusiasm for some current fad. In such cases, the urge to get on the bandwagon—even in high-growth industries—produced a profitless prosperity for investors. ~ Burton G Malkiel,
436:When I heard the language of men uttered by my mare," continued Aravis, "I said to myself, the fear of death has disordered my reason and subjected me to delusions. And I became full of shame for none of my lineage ought to fear death more than the biting of a gnat. Therefore I addressed myself a second time to the stabbing, but Hwin came near to me and put her head in between me and the dagger and discoursed to me most excellent reasons and rebuked me as a mother rebukes her daughter. And now my wonder was so great that I forgot about killing myself and about Ahoshta and said, 'O my mare, how have you learned to speak like one of the daughters of men?' And Hwin told me what is known to all this company, that in Narnia there are beasts that talk, and how she herself was stolen from thence when she was a little foal. She told me also of the woods and waters of Narnia and the castles and the great ships, till I said, 'In the name of Tash and Azaroth and Zardeenah, Lady of the Night, I have a great wish to be in that country of Narnia,' 'O my mistress,' answered the mare, 'if you were in Narnia you would be happy, for in that land no maiden is forced to marry against her will. ~ C S Lewis,
437:Don't even consider it, young lady."
Ariel raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. Young lady? In the years that had passed since the duel with the sea witch, she had aged. Not dramatically, but far more than a mostly immortal mermaid should have. There was something about her eyes- they were deeper, wiser, and wearier than when she was a young mer who had never been on dry land. Her cheeks weren't quite as plump anymore; the angles of her face were more pronounced. Sometimes she wondered if she looked like her mother... aside from her own unreliable memories, the only physical evidence of the former queen was a statue in the castle of her and Triton dancing together. But it was all pale milky marble, no colors at all. Dead.
Ariel's hair no longer flowed behind her as it once had; handmaidens and decorator crabs kept it braided and coiffed, snug and businesslike under the great golden crown that sat on her temples, like the gods wore. Small gold and aquamarine earrings sparkled regally but didn't tinkle; they were quite understated and professional. Her only real nod to youth was the golden ring in the upper part of her left ear.
"Young lady," indeed. ~ Liz Braswell,
438:Is it fair to call The Princess Bride a classic? The storybook story about pirates and princesses, giants and wizards, Cliffs of Insanity and Rodents of Unusual Size? It's certainly one of the most often quoted films in cinema history, with lines like:
"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
"Anybody want a peanut?"
"Have fun storming the castle."
"Never get involved in a land war in Asia."
"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something."
"Rest well, and dream of large women."
"I hate for people to die embarrassed."
"Please consider me as an alternative to suicide."
"This is true love. You think this happens every day?"
"Get used to disappointment."
"I'm not a witch. I'm your wife."
"Mawidege. That bwessed awangement."
"You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."... You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."
"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while."
"Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!"
"There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours."
And of course...
"As you wish. ~ Cary Elwes,

Why don’t you write tragedy?


I’m fated to deal in mixtures, slumgullions, which preclude tragedy, which require a pure line. It’s a habit of mind, a perversity. Tom Hess used to tell a story, maybe from Lewis Carroll, I don’t remember, about an enraged mob storming the palace shouting “More taxes! Less bread!” As soon as I hear a proposition I immediately consider its opposite. A double-minded man—makes for mixtures.


Apparently the Yiddish theater, to which Kafka was very addicted, includes as a typical bit of comedy two clowns, more or less identical, who appear even in sad scenes—the parting of two lovers, for instance—and behave comically as the audience is weeping. This shows up especially in The Castle.


The assistants.


And the audience doesn’t know what to do.


The confusing signals, the impurity of the signal, gives you verisimilitude. As when you attend a funeral and notice, against your will, that it’s being poorly done. [...] I think of the line from the German writer Heimito von Doderer: “At first you break windows. Then you become a window yourself. ~ Donald Barthelme,
440:Now,” said Voldemort, “we go to the castle, and show them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag the body? No--Wait--”
There was a fresh outbreak of laughter, and after a few moments Harry felt the ground trembling beneath him.
“You carry him,” Voldemort said. “He will be nice and visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little friend, Hagrid. And the glasses--put on the glasses--he must be recognizable--”
Someone slammed Harry’s glasses back onto his face with deliberate force, but the enormous hands that lifted him into the air were exceedingly gentle. Harry could feel Hagrid’s arms trembling with the force of his heaving sobs; great tears splashed down upon him as Hagrid cradled Harry in his arms, and Harry did not dare, by movement or word, to intimate to Hagrid that all was not, yet, lost.
“Move,” said Voldemort, and Hagrid stumbled forward, forcing his way through the close-growing trees, back through the forest. Branches caught at Harry’s hair and robes, but he lay quiescent, his mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the darkness, while the Death Eaters crowed all around them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, nobody looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed neck of Harry Potter… ~ J K Rowling,
441: The Dream Days
I LIKE the dream days best of all,
The hollyhocks against the wall;
The rambler roses blushing red,
The blue skies bending overhead,
With just enough of summer breeze
To whisper in the leafy trees;
When lazily the plow boys plod,
And lazily the blossoms nod,
And everything about me seems
Wrapt up somehow in pleasant dreams.
I like to lie full length and flat,
And shade my eyes with my old hat;
Building out yonder in the skies
Air castles grand, whose towers rise
Higher than summer swallows fly,
The castles of sweet by and by;
Forgetting care and shirking toil,
Forgetting lust for fame and spoil,
Just dreaming dreams that won't come true,
But living as the flowers do.
I like the dream days best, for then
The world 's in tune with lazy men;
The very flowers droop and sway
In such a restful, lazy way
As though they, too, would like to be
Stretched out beneath this tree with me;
And fleecy, snow white clouds float by
As though no part of earth or sky.
And far off seem the busy marts
Where gather shrewd and sordid hearts,
Just roses, hollyhocks and I,
Dreaming while Father Time goes by.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
442:Her departure left no traces but were speedily repaired by the coming of spring. The sun growing warmer, and the close season putting an end to the Marquess's hunting, it was now Odo's chief pleasure to carry his books to the walled garden between the castle and the southern face of the cliff. This small enclosure, probably a survival of medieval horticulture, had along the upper ledge of its wall a grass walk commanding the flow of the stream, and an angle turret that turned one slit to the valley, the other to the garden lying below like a tranquil well of scent and brightness: its box trees clipped to the shape of peacocks and lions, its clove pinks and simples set in a border of thrift, and a pear tree basking on its sunny wall. These pleasant spaces, which Odo had to himself save when the canonesses walked there to recite their rosary, he peopled with the knights and ladies of the novelle, and the fantastic beings of Pulci's epic: there walked the Fay Morgana, Regulus the loyal knight, the giant Morgante, Trajan the just Emperor and the proud figure of King Conrad; so that, escaping thither from the after-dinner dullness of the tapestry parlour, the boy seemed to pass from the most oppressive solitude to a world of warmth and fellowship. ~ Edith Wharton,
443:That night I retreated for the last time to the mountain peaks behind the castle and roamed along moonlit paths in the cool end-of-winter air. In the distance I heard the harpwinds, but this time I saw no one. The harps thrummed their weird threnodies, and from peak to peak reed pipes sounded, clear as winged creatures riding on the air, until the night was filled with the songs of approaching spring, and life, and freedom.
The music quieted my restlessness and buoyed me up with joy. I climbed the white stone peak at Elios and looked down at the castle, silhouetted silvery against the darker peaks in the distance. The air was clear, and I could see on the highest tower a tiny human figure, hatless, his long dark cloak belling and waving, and star-touched pale hair tangling in the wind.
In silence I watched the still figure as music filled the valley between us and drifted into eternity on the night air.
The big moon was high overhead when, one by one, the pipes played a last melody, and at last the music stopped, leaving only the sound of the wind in the trees.
It was time to return, for we would depart early in order to get off the mountain before nightfall. When at last I reached the courtyard and looked up at the tower, no one was there. ~ Sherwood Smith,
444:I am short, so I like the little guy/underdog stories, but they are not straightforwardly about one size versus another. Think about, say, Jack and the Beanstalk, which is basically a big ugly stupid giant, and a smart little Jack who is fast on his feet. OK, but the unstable element is the beanstalk, which starts as a bean and grows into a huge tree-like thing that Jack climbs to reach the castle. This bridge between two worlds is unpredictable and very surprising. And later, when the giant tries to climb after Jack, the beanstalk has to be chopped down pronto. This suggests to me that the pursuit of happiness, which we may as well call life, is full of surprising temporary elements -- we get somewhere we couldn't go otherwise and we profit from the trip, but we can't stay there, it isn't our world, and we shouldn't let that world come crashing down into the one we can inhabit. The beanstalk has to be chopped down. But the large-scale riches from the 'other world' can be brought into ours, just as Jack makes off with the singing harp and the golden hen. Whatever we 'win' will accommodate itself to our size and form -- just as the miniature princesses and the frog princes all assume the true form necessary for their coming life, and ours.

Size does matter. ~ Jeanette Winterson,
445:I have never created anything in my life that did not make me feel, at some point or another, like I was the guy who just walked into a fancy ball wearing a homemade lobster costume. But you must stubbornly walk into that room, regardless, and you must hold your head high. You made it; you get to put it out there. Never apologize for it, never explain it away, never be ashamed of it. You did your best with what you knew, and you worked with what you had, in the time that you were given. You were invited, and you showed up, and you simply cannot do more that that. They might throw you out - but then again, they might not. They probably won't throw you out, actually. The ballroom is often more welcoming and supportive than you could ever imagine. Somebody might even think you're brilliant and marvelous. You might end up dancing with royalty. Or you might just end up having to dance alone in the corner of the castle with your big, ungainly red foam claws waving in the empty air. that's fine, too. Sometimes it's like that. What you absolutely must not do is turn around and walk out. Otherwise, you will miss the party, and that would be a pity, because - please believe me - we did not come all this great distance, and make all this great effort, only to miss the party at the last moment. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
446:Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words. . . . He turned and looked. There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building . . . wherever they had murdered. . . . “When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet. “Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs —” “We need to return to the castle at once,” said Dumbledore. “Rosmerta” — and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation — “we need transport — brooms —” “I’ve got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking very frightened. “Shall I run and fetch — ?” “No, Harry can do it.” Harry raised his wand at once. “Accio Rosmerta’s Brooms!” A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry’s side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly at waist height. “Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,” said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realized anything is wrong. . . . Harry, put on your Invisibility ~ J K Rowling,
447:Blaire, do ye remember the time ye shot me in the arse? Did ye really think it necessary? All I did was tell ye that you could no come down to the village with me and Arran.” He turned to watch her closely, hoping she would correct him. He knew why she’d really shot him. His father had spent what seemed like half a day explaining to him why he was never to speak to a lady in such a hurtful way ever again.  “Nay, Eoin. That isn’t why I shot ye, that day. I shot ye because ye told me I was the ugliest lass that ye’d ever seen, and ye’d rather kiss Griffin’s arse than be married to me someday. It was the summer we walked in on our fathers discussing the betrothal.”  “Aye. That’s right. I do apologize, Blaire. I was young and foolish. At that age, I’d rather have kissed Griffin’s arse than any lass.” He laughed, thinking himself foolish for giving Arran’s notion any thought.  As they reached the castle grounds and Eoin stashed their equipment away, he thought of one last question as Bri turned to make her way up to her room in the castle. “I canna remember which ear it is that yer father canna hear from. Which is it?” “It’s his right.”  As she turned and walked inside the castle, Eoin felt his heart drop into the deepest depths of his stomach.  He knew it had always been her father’s left ear. ~ Bethany Claire,
448:A different serving boy came out with a basket of steaming hot bread and, in the Gaulic fashion, little tubs of sweet butter. Eric preferred olive oil, but along with all the other terrible things going on in the castle, Vanessa had embraced Gaulic culture with the tacky enthusiasm of a true nouveau riche.
"I do so love baguettes, my dear, sweet, Mad Prince. Don't you?" she said with a sigh, picking up a piece and buttering it carefully. "You know, we don't have them where I come from."
"Really? Where you come from? What country on Earth doesn't have some form of bread? Tell me. Please, I'd like to know."
"Well, we don't have a grand tradition of baking, in general," she said, opening her mouth wider and wider. Then, all the while looking directly at Eric, she carefully pushed the entire slice in. She chewed, forcefully, largely, and expressively. He could see whole lumps of bread being pushed around her mouth and up against her cheeks.
The prince threw his own baguette back down on the plate in disgust.
She grinned, mouth still working.
"Your appetite is healthy, despite your cold," he growled. "Healthy for a longshoreman. Where do you put it all? You never- seem- to- gain- a -pound."
"Running the castle keeps one trim," she answered modestly. ~ Liz Braswell,
449:There was a pause in which Harry glared at her, and her eyes filled slowly with tears. “You didn’t mean that,” said Harry quietly. “No . . . well . . . all right . . . I didn’t,” she said, wiping her eyes angrily. “But why does he have to make life so difficult for himself — for us?” “I dunno —” Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, He didn’t let the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King . . . “And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” said Hermione miserably, “haven’t they gloated enough?” A great tide of students was moving up the sloping lawns from the pitch. “Oh, let’s get in before we have to meet the Slytherins,” said Hermione. Weasley can save anything, He never leaves a single ring, That’s why Gryffindors all sing: Weasley is our King. “Hermione . . .” said Harry slowly. The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but from a mass of red and gold moving slowly toward the castle, which was bearing a solitary figure upon its many shoulders. . . . Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, He didn’t let the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King . . . “No!” said Hermione in a hushed voice. “YES!” said Harry loudly. “HARRY! HERMIONE!” yelled Ron, waving the silver Quidditch Cup in the air and looking quite beside himself. “WE DID IT! WE ~ J K Rowling,
450:I have an announcement,” her father said, brandishing a sheaf of official-looking papers. “Since Bramwell has failed to muster the appropriate enthusiasm, I thought I would share the good news with you, his friends.” He adjusted his spectacles. “In honor of his valor and contributions in the liberation of Portugal, Bramwell has been made an earl. I have here the letters patent from the Prince Regent himself. He will henceforth be known as Lord Rycliff.”
Susanna choked on her tea. “What? Lord Rycliff? But that title is extinct. There hasn’t been an Earl of Rycliff since…”
“Since 1354. Precisely. The title has lain dormant for nearly five centuries. When I wrote to him emphasizing Bramwell’s contributions, the Prince Regent was glad of my suggestion to revive it.”
A powder blast in the Red Salon could not have stunned Susanna more. Her gaze darted to the officer in question. For a man elevated to the peerage, he didn’t look happy about it, either.
“Good God,” Payne remarked. “An earl? This can’t be borne. As if it weren’t bad enough that he controls my fortune, my cousin now outranks me. Just what does this earldom include, anyhow?”
“Not much besides the honor of the title. No real lands to speak of, except for the-“
“The castle,” Susanna finished, her voice remote.
Her castle. ~ Tessa Dare,
451:I don't think I could ever see her closely," the sentinel replied, "however close she came." His own voice was hushed and regretful, echoing with lost chances. "She has a newness," he said. "Everything is for the first time. See how she moves, how she walks, how she turns her head -- all for the first time, the first time anyone has ever done these things. See how she draws her breath and lets it go again, as though no one else in the world knew that air was good. It is all for her. If I learned that she had been born this very morning, I would only be surprised that she was so old." The second sentinel stared down from his tower at the three wanderers. The tall man saw him first, and next the dour woman. Their eyes reflected nothing but his armor, grim and cankered and empty. But then the girl in the ruined black cloak raised her head, and he stepped back from the parapet, putting out one tin glove against her glance. In a moment she passed into the shadow of the castle with her companions, and he lowered his hand. "She may be mad," he said calmly. "No grown girl looks like that unless she is mad. That would be annoying, but far preferable to the remaining possibility." "Which is?" the younger man prompted after a silence.
"Which is that she was indeed born this morning. I would rather that she were mad. ~ Peter S Beagle,
452:This is how you must do it, people. I have never created anything in my life that did not make me feel, at some point or another, like I was the guy who just walked into a fancy ball wearing a homemade lobster costume. But you must stubbornly walk into that room, regardless, and you must hold your head high. You made it; you get to put it out there. Never apologize for it, never explain it away, never be ashamed of it. You did your best with what you knew, and you worked with what you had, in the time that you were given. You were invited, and you showed up, and you simply cannot do more than that. They might throw you out - but then again, they might not. They probably won't throw you out, actually. The ballroom is often more welcoming and supportive than you could ever imagine. Somebody might even think you're brilliant and marvelous. You might end up dancing with royalty. Or you might end up just having to dance alone in the corner of the castle with your big, ungainly red foam claws waving in the empty air. That's fine, too. Sometimes it's like that. What you must not do is turn around and walk out. Otherwise you will miss the party, and that would be a pity because, - please believe me - we did not come all this great distance, and make all this great effort, only to miss the party at the last moment. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
453:Pulling his wet shirt over his head, Bram headed for the bathing chamber, pausing as he passed a mirror and getting a glimpse of his reflection—the glimpse reminding him of something he had no idea how to address. Lifting up the patch that covered his eye, he directed his attention to Stanley again. “Why didn’t anyone mention to me that I was wearing this before I charged out of the castle?” Stanley scratched his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but since your vision has to be obscured while wearing that patch, I assumed you knew you were wearing it. Quite honestly, I thought you kept it on in order to appear more intimidating. You know—a pirate look, if you will.” “I had to admit to Miss Plum that there’s nothing wrong with my eye.” “And . . . that was difficult for you, sir?” “Do you know how odd she must find me now, learning that I run about with a patch over a perfectly good eye?” “She wouldn’t find you odd if you just told her the truth.” “I can’t tell her the truth—or anyone else for that matter. Why, it would kill my mother if she found out.” “Now you’re being a little overly theatrical, sir. But speaking of theatrics, you could tell Miss Plum that you were trying to get into the role you’ll be expected to play later on this week during the theatrical event your mother is hosting here at Ravenwood.” “Mother’s ~ Jen Turano,
454:Gilan,” she said, “you’re looking well.” And apart from those wrinkles, he was.
He smiled at her. “And you grow more beautiful every day, Pauline,” he replied.
“What about me?” Halt said, with mock severity. “Do I grow more handsome every day? More impressive, perhaps?”
Gilan eyed him critically, his head to one side. Then he announced his verdict.
“Scruffier,” he said.
Halt raised his eyebrows. “’Scruffier’?” he demanded.
Gilan nodded. I’m not sure if you’re aware of recent advances in technology, Halt,” he said. “But there a wonderful new invention called scissors. People use them for trimming beards and hair.”
Gilan appealed to Pauline. “Still using his saxe knife to do his barbering, is he?”
Pauline nodded, slipping her hand inside her husband’s arm. “Unless I can catch him at it,” she admitted. Halt regarded them both with a withering look. They both refused to wither, so he abandoned the expression.
“You show a fine lack of respect for your former mentor,” he told Gilan.
The younger man shrugged. “It goes with my exalted position as your commander.”
“Not mine,” Halt said. “I’ve retired.”
“So I can expect little in the way of deference from you?” Gilan grinned.
“No. I’ll show proper deference….the day you train your horse to fly back around the castle’s turrets. ~ John Flanagan,
455: The Great Journalist In Spain
Good editor Dana-God bless him, we sayWill soon be afloat on the main,
Will be steaming away
Through the mist and the spray
To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land
Which is famed for its soap and its Moor,
For, as we understand,
The scenery is grand
Though the system of railways is poor.
For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold
Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes,
And the ladies, we're told,
Are a joy to behold
As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.
What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar
And murmur a passionate strain;
Oh, fairer by far
Than those ravishments are
The castles abounding in Spain.
These castles are built as the builder may listThey are sometimes of marble or stone,
But they mostly consist
Of east wind and mist
With an ivy of froth overgrown.
A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise
On a futile foundation of hope,
And its glories shall blaze
In the somnolent haze
Of the mythical lake del y Soap.
The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air
And the visions of Dreamland obtain,
And the song of 'World's Fair'
Shall be heard everywhere
Through that beautiful castle in Spain.
~ Eugene Field,
456:Louis XI (1423-1483), the great Spider King of France, had a weakness for astrology. He kept a court astrologer whom he admired, until one day the man predicted that a lady of the court would die within eight days. When the prophecy came true, Louis was terrified, thinking that either the man had murdered the woman to prove his accuracy or that he was so versed in his science that his powers threatened Louis himself. In either case he had to be killed. One evening Louis summoned the astrologer to his room, high in the castle. Before the man arrived, the king told his servants that when he gave the signal they were to pick the astrologer up, carry him to the window, and hurl him to the ground, hundreds of feet below. The astrologer soon arrived, but before giving the signal, Louis decided to ask him one last question: “You claim to understand astrology and to know the fate of others, so tell me what your fate will be and how long you have to live.” “I shall die just three days before Your Majesty,” the astrologer replied. The king’s signal was never given. The man’s life was spared. The Spider King not only protected his astrologer for as long as he was alive, he lavished him with gifts and had him tended by the finest court doctors. The astrologer survived Louis by several years, disproving his power of prophecy but proving his mastery of power. ~ Robert Greene,
457:This embittered thought brought to her mind the several occasions upon which she might, had she been the kind of female his lordship no doubt admired, have kindled his ardour by a display of sensibility, or even of heroism ... To have thrown herself between the foils, when she had surprised the Earl fencing with Martin, would certainly have been spectacular, but that it would have evoked anything but exasperation in the male breast she was quite unable to believe. She thought she need not blame herself for having refrained upon this occasion; but when she recalled her behaviour in the avenue, when the Earl had been thrown from his horse, she knew that nothing could excuse her. Here had been an opportunity for spasms, swoonings, and a display of sensibility, utterly neglected! How could his lordship have been expected to guess that her heart had been beating so hard and so fast that had felt quite sick, when all she had done was to talk to him in a voice drained of all expression? Not even when his lifeless body had been carried into the Castle had she conducted herself like a heroine of romance! Had she fainted at the sight of his blood-soaked raiment? Had she screamed? No! All she had done had been to direct Ulverston to do one thing, Turvey another, Chard to ride for the doctor, while she herself had done what lay within her power to staunch the bleeding. ~ Georgette Heyer,
458:Long Live King Peter! Long Live Queen Susan! Long Live King Edmund! Long Live Queen Lucy!”
“Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen. Bear it well, Sons of Adam! Bear it well, Daughters of Eve!” said Aslan.
And through the eastern door, which was wide open, came the voices of the mermen and the mermaids swimming close to the castle steps and singing in honor of their new Kings and Queens.
So the children sat in their thrones and scepters were put into their hands and they gave rewards and honors to all their friends, to Tumnus the Faun, and to the Beavers, and Giant Rumblebuffin, to the leopards, and the good centaurs and the good dwarfs, and to the lion. And that night there was a great feast in Cair Paravel, and revelry and dancing, and gold flashed and wine flowed, and answering to the music inside, but stranger, sweeter, and more piercing, came the music of the sea-people.
But amid all these rejoicings Aslan himself quietly slipped away. And when the Kings and Queens noticed that he wasn’t there, they said nothing about it. For Mr. Beaver had warned them. “He’ll be coming and going,” he had said. “One day you’ll see him and another you won’t. He doesn’t like being tied down--and of course he has other countries to attend to. It’s quite all right. He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him. He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion. ~ C S Lewis,
459:The King and Queen did the best they could. They hired the most superior tutors and governesses to teach Cimorene all the things a princess ought to know— dancing, embroidery, drawing, and etiquette. There was a great deal of etiquette, from the proper way to curtsy before a visiting prince to how loudly it was permissible to scream when being carried off by a giant. (...)

Cimorene found it all very dull, but she pressed her lips together and learned it anyway. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she would go down to the castle armory and bully the armsmaster into giving her a fencing lesson. As she got older, she found her regular lessons more and more boring. Consequently, the fencing lessons became more and more frequent.

When she was twelve, her father found out.

“Fencing is not proper behavior for a princess,” he told her in the gentle-but-firm tone recommended by the court philosopher.

Cimorene tilted her head to one side. “Why not?”

“It’s ... well, it’s simply not done.”

Cimorene considered. “Aren’t I a princess?”

“Yes, of course you are, my dear,” said her father with relief. He had been bracing himself for a storm of tears, which was the way his other daughters reacted to reprimands.

“Well, I fence,” Cimorene said with the air of one delivering an unshakable argument. “So it is too done by a princess. ~ Patricia C Wrede,
460:On Easter Monday there was a great display of fireworks from the Castle of St. Angelo. We hired a room in an opposite house, and made our way, to our places, in good time, through a dense mob of people choking up the square in front, and all the avenues leading to it; and so loading the bridge by which the castle is approached, that it seemed ready to sink into the rapid Tiber below. There are statues on this bridge (execrable works), and, among them, great vessels full of burning tow were placed: glaring strangely on the faces of the crowd, and not less strangely on the stone counterfeits above them. The show began with a tremendous discharge of cannon; and then, for twenty minutes or half an hour, the whole castle was one incessant sheet of fire, and labyrinth of blazing wheels of every colour, size, and speed: while rockets streamed into the sky, not by ones or twos, or scores, but hundreds at a time. The concluding burst - the Girandola - was like the blowing up into the air of the whole massive castle, without smoke or dust. In half an hour afterwards, the immense concourse had dispersed; the moon was looking calmly down upon her wrinkled image in the river; and half - a - dozen men and boys with bits of lighted candle in their hands: moving here and there, in search of anything worth having, that might have been dropped in the press: had the whole scene to themselves. ~ Charles Dickens,
461:All the royal tales got their own special festivals. In honor of the Sleeping Beauty tale, Ever After High held the yearly Beauty Sleep Festival. Everyone put on their pajamas and lay down on their beds, and a magical sleep spell rained over the castle, putting them into a restful slumber for two days.
Briar rolled her eyes. "I'd prefer my story got a dance festival with some kicky music and a chocolate fountain."
"It's kind of like a massive slumber party, so that's cool," said Ashlynn.
"Kinda," said Briar. "But the best part of a slumber party isn't the part where you're unconscious. I'm already facing a hundred years of sleep. Worst. Festival. Ever."
"You recall that the royal festival for the Cinderella story is basically just an excuse to get the students to clean the high school," said Ashlynn.
Briar laughed, putting her arm around Ashlynn. "That's true! But at least your Spring Cleaning Festival ends with a Ball."
Apple always enjoyed the Apple Festival in her story's honor- so many pies and turnovers and breads, and none of them poisoned. The whole school smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg for days. The Spring Cleaning Festival was an excellent opportunity to clean out her sock drawer and then wear a ball gown and dance till midnight. The Little Mermaid Festival took place every summer at Looking Glass Beach with swimming, beach volleyball, and a clam dig. ~ Shannon Hale,
462:I’d dreamed once of a forest of gold, and Jesse had done what he could to give it to me. His bedroom had been transformed into a wonderland of leaves and flowers, pinecones and branches of birch and oak, all of it glimmering, all of it singing. The bed was covered, his chest of drawers, the sill.
Much of it was jumbled together, beautiful for what it was if not its presentation. Jesse had last left this room on the night of his death, right after he’d called to me, right before he’d gone to the castle. So he would have been scattering his final gift in haste, knowing he worked against the clock.
Knowing, somehow, what was to come.
Which meant he’d been making gold for weeks. When I’d seen him so tired, when he’d told me all those nights that we should rest apart…he had been doing this.
For me.
A folded note had been set upon the bed. My name had been scrawled upon it.
I love you was all it said inside.
I sank to the floor. I looked up and all around as the sun danced through the window and turned Jesse’s room into an ambered heaven of song and shimmer and sparks.
That was how Armand found me, hours later. That was what he saw, as well, what he heard, as he walked slowly into the chamber and eased down beside me to rest his back against the bed.
We sat there together, listening, marveling.
In time, his hand reached out and took firm hold of mine. ~ Shana Abe,
463:So, tell me, what did you think of my Bram?” Abigail asked as she settled herself in the chair, looking as if she fully intended to stay for a while. “Don’t you think we should discuss your daughter first?” Abigail immediately turned stubborn. “Not particularly. There’s nothing much to say about Iris other than that she loathes me and we don’t share an amicable relationship. Now Bram, on the other hand, is a delightful subject to speak about.” Lucetta settled into the bubbles. “Why do you imagine he was wearing that patch when there’s evidently nothing wrong with his eye?” “It was so gallant of him to whisk you into the castle and bring you up to this tower room, wasn’t it?” Abigail countered, as if Lucetta hadn’t posed a question. “Do you believe he enjoys assuming a pirate persona when he’s at his leisure? Although . . . now that I consider the matter, what does he do when he’s not at his leisure?” Lucetta countered right back. Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and immediately took to looking a little grumpy. “I’m not exactly certain what Bram does, dear. My son-in-law, Phillip—Bram’s father—made a rather large fortune when he invested in a sugar plantation years ago down in Cuba. Because of that fortune, Bram, along with his brother and sister, aren’t required to pursue professions, or make advantageous marriages, although . . . I’m sure Bram does something to occupy his time.” “And ~ Jen Turano,
464:The Light Fae. As a race, they were supposed to be all about good and decency, but there wasn’t a shred of either emotion within the walls of Usaeil’s castle.
Neve observed Talin examining everything around him – from the castle, the Fae walking outside, the trees, and even the sky. His pale silver eyes missed nothing. She wondered what he saw, and how he catalogued things.
His long, black hair had the barest hint of a wave to it as it hung to the shoulders of his pale blue shirt. He shoved one side behind an ear and tilted his head as if listening.
She didn’t think he realized she was still beside him, not that she minded. It gave her a chance to fill her gaze with his sharply chiseled features.
The hard planes of his jaw and chin were in direct contrast to his wide lips and thick eyelashes. It was difficult to look at Talin and notice anything but those beautiful eyes.
Except when she did look down, she saw a body that made her hands itch to touch him. His shirt barely contained wide shoulders that tapered to narrow hips where navy pants encased his legs. Every muscle was honed and defined.
As eye-catching as Talin’s personal package was, it didn’t hold a candle to what drew her interest – his bearing. The way he stood, walked, talked.
In a castle full of Light who believed themselves above others, the only one who had the attitude and demeanor to carry it off was Talin. ~ Donna Grant,
465:He paused a moment, gazing in awe at the huge mass of buildings composing the castle. It stood close to the river, on either side and to the rear stretched the extensive park and gardens, filled with splendid trees, fountains and beds of brilliant flowers in shades of pink, crimson, and scarlet. The castle itself was built of pink granite, and enclosed completely a smaller, older building which the present Duke's father had considered too insignificant for his town residence. The new castle had taken forty years to build; three architects and hundreds of men had worked day and night, and the old Duke had personally selected every block of sunset-colored stone that went to its construction. 'I want it to look like a great half-open rose,' he declared to the architects, who were fired with enthusiasm by this romantic fancy. It was begun as a wedding present to the Duke's wife, whose name was Rosamond, but unfortunately she died some nine years before it was completed. 'never mind, it will do for her memorial instead,' said the grief-stricken but practical widower. The work went on. At last the final block was laid in place. The Duke, by now very old, went out in his barouche and drove slowly along the opposite riverbank to consider the effect. He paused midway for a long time, then gave his opinion. 'It looks like a cod cutlet covered in shrimp sauce,' he said, drove home, took to his bed, and died. ~ Joan Aiken,
466:One of the rooms in the castle had a creature in it,” Curran said.
“What kind of creature?”
“A large cat,” Curran said. “It glowed.”
“What happened to the large glowing cat?” Why did I have a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer?
“I killed it,” Curran said.
“Aha.” First, I broke Mishmar, then Curran stole Saiman back and killed my father’s glowing cat. Maybe Roland’s head would explode.
“It was a saber-toothed tiger,” Julie said. “It glowed silver.”
Silver meant divine magic. There was no telling what that saber-toothed tiger was or where my dad had gotten him.
“Snitch,” Derek said.
She waved him off. “He killed it and then he ate it.”
I looked at Curran. “You killed an animal god and then you ate him?”
“Maybe,” Curran said.
“What do you mean maybe?”
“I doubt it was a god.”
“It glowed silver,” Julie said. “It was definitely worshipped.”
Oh boy.
Curran swerved to avoid a speed bump formed by tree roots raising the asphalt. “I could worship a lamp. That doesn’t make it a god.”
“Why did you eat it?” I asked in a small voice.
“It felt right at the time.”
“He devoured it,” Julie said. “Completely. With bones.”
If it was some sort of divine animal and he ate it, there was no telling what the flesh or the magic would do to him. There would be consequences. There were always consequences.
“Do you feel any side effects?”
“Not any I want to talk about with them in the car. ~ Ilona Andrews,
467:If the queen catches you in here again, Princess, she'll sentence you to do the dishes right alongside me! she heard another voice ring out.
No one was there, but Snow knew the voice. It was Mrs. Kindred, the cook who had survived her aunt's dismissals over the years. When Snow's mother was alive, she'd encouraged her daughter to be friendly with those who helped them in the castle, and Mrs. Kindred had always been Snow's favorite person to chat with. She could see herself sitting on a chair, no more than six or seven, watching Mrs. Kindred chop onions, carrots, and leeks and throw them all into a giant pot of broth. She and Mrs. Kindred only stole a few moments together most days now- she suspected her aunt must have forbidden the cook from talking to her, what with how Mrs. Kindred always quickly sent Snow on her way- but back then she had always peppered the cook with questions. ("How do you cut the carrots so small? Why do leeks have sand in them? What spices are you going to add? How do you know how much to put in?") On one such occasion, she'd been such a distraction that Mrs. Kindred had finally picked her up, holding her high on her broad chest, and let her stir the pot herself. Eventually, she taught her how to dice and chop, too, since Snow wouldn't stop talking. By suppertime, young Snow had convinced herself she'd made the whole meal. She had been proud, too, carrying the dishes out to the dining table that night. ~ Jen Calonita,
468:GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. “But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon. Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t mentioned the date. “Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening while we were there!” There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t meet Harry’s eyes this time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry read the story again. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been what the thieves were looking for? As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid collected that package just in time? Where was it now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn’t want to tell Harry? ~ J K Rowling,
469: Psalm Concerning The Castle
Let me be at the place of the castle.
Let the castle be within me.
Let it rise foursquare from the moat's ring.
Let the moat's waters reflect green plumage of ducks, let
the shells of swimming turtles break the surface or be
seen through the rippling depths.
Let horsemen be stationed at the rim of it, and a dog,
always alert on the brink of sleep.
Let the space under the first storey be dark, let the water
lap the stone posts, and vivid green slime glimmer upon
them; let a boat be kept there.
Let the caryatids of the second storey be bears upheld on
beams that are dragons.
On the parapet of the central room, let there be four
archers, looking off to the four horizons. Within, let
the prince be at home, let him sit in deep thought, at
peace, all the windows open to the loggias.
Let the young queen sit above, in the cool air, her child in
her arms; let her look with joy at the great circle, the
pilgrim shadows, the work of the sun and the play of
the wind. Let her walk to and fro. Let the columns uphold
the roof, let the storeys uphold the columns, let there
be dark space below the lowest floor, let the castle rise
foursquare out of the moat, let the moat be a ring and
the water deep, let the guardians guard it, let there be
wide lands around it, let that country where it stands be
within me, let me be where it is.
~ Denise Levertov,
470:But Holms had proven stalwart and valiant. When Miss Jones had shown up to discover them in the castle hallway, because she’d heard a suspicious noise and had feared for her schoolchums’ safety, they’ d had to bring her along. She’d wanted to run straight to the headmistress, of course, but Armand had persuaded her not to. How he regretted that decision now!
The duke had fired his guns at them all. They’d retreated, thought to go to the automobile to fetch a doctor and the sheriff, but they’d stumbled the wrong way and fallen down the slope to the beach instead. All three of them. And there, noble Jesse had died.
Fact. Fiction. Likely because so much of it had happened, and because Armand’s red-eyed, stoic distress seemed so genuine, the adults around us had accepted it as truth.
I think if I hadn’t been discovered wearing only Armand’s coat as I knelt next to Jesse’s body, Mrs. Westcliffe might have found the whole thing easier to swallow.
Yet the official version ruled the day. And here we all were basking in it, breathing fresh sea air, warmed by the generous spring sun. Burying a hero. A far, far greater hero than anyone standing around me at his funeral would ever suspect.
Somewhere in deep-blue briny waters, a U-boat rested, filled with live torpedoes and solid-gold men.
I thought I better understood Rue’s letters now. I understood her warning about the pain that would come with my Gifts.
I understood my sacrifice. ~ Shana Abe,
471:been to your office, Lupin. You forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful along. And very lucky I did . . . lucky for me, I mean. Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight.” “Severus —” Lupin began, but Snape overrode him. “I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here’s the proof. Not even I dreamed you would have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout —” “Severus, you’re making a mistake,” said Lupin urgently. “You haven’t heard everything — I can explain — Sirius is not here to kill Harry —” “Two more for Azkaban tonight,” said Snape, his eyes now gleaming fanatically. “I shall be interested to see how Dumbledore takes this. . . . He was quite convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin . . . a tame werewolf —” “You fool,” said Lupin softly. “Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?” BANG! Thin, snakelike cords burst from the end of Snape’s wand and twisted themselves around Lupin’s mouth, wrists, and ankles; he overbalanced and fell to the floor, unable to move. With a roar of rage, Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his wand straight between Black’s eyes. “Give me a reason,” he whispered. “Give me a reason to do it, and I swear I will.” Black stopped dead. It would have been impossible to say which face showed more hatred. ~ J K Rowling,
472:Dinner was a family affair. And oh, how she enjoyed it! Who knew there was so much to talk about each day? She loved when the men shared stories about their work in the mines, while she often regaled them with stories about life in the castle when she was a small child or about the types of birds she spotted from the window. And then there were the questions. She found she had many! After staying silent for so long, there was much she longed to know, and she was always interested in learning more about the men and their lives. She wanted to know who had carved the beautiful wooden doorways and furniture around the cottage, and why the deer and the birds seemed to linger at the kitchen window while she prepped meals.
"They must adore you, as we do," gushed Bashful.
"And I you!" Snow would say. She found she could talk to them till the candle burned out each night.
It felt like she was finally waking up and finding her voice after years of silent darkness. And while she promised the men she would not do more than her share of the housework, she couldn't help trying to find small ways to repay them for their kindness when she wasn't busy strategizing. Despite their protests, she prepared a lunch basket for them to take to work each day. She mended tiny socks. And secretly, she was using yarn and needles she had found to knit them blankets for their beds. It might have been summer, but she couldn't help noticing they had few blankets for the winter months. ~ Jen Calonita,
473:ONCE UPON A time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him. To the eldest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him as much as all the treasure in the kingdom. To the middle princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him with the strength of iron. To the youngest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” This youngest princess thought for a long time before answering. Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. “Then you do not love me at all,” the king said. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread. She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. As the days and weeks go by, the princess learns the ways of the kitchen. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served. It is the king’s favorite dish, but this time it has been cooked with no salt. The king tastes it. Tastes it again. “Who would dare to serve ~ E Lockhart,
474:As I thought about endings and – being a lover of fairy tales – I knew immediately that the deeply rooted last line in folk stories, ‘And they lived happily ever after’, is the core of what we think we know about endings. We hear it always in our hindbrain because it’s the last line most of us in the West have grown up with. That line stops the story at the point of greatest happiness. The wedding, the homecoming, the mystery unraveled, the villain disposed of, families reunited, babies born. If we went on in the story Cinderella, she might be whispered about in court: after all, her manners are not impeccable, she always has smudges of ash on her nose, and no one can trace her bloodline back enough generations. Perhaps she has grown fat eating all that rich food in the castle, and the prince’s eye has strayed.

If we went on in The Three Little Pigs, the brother who builds with bricks will have kicked the other two lay-abouts out of his house, or hired them to run his successful company and they – angry at their lower status – plot to kill him. But, having little imagination, do it the only way they know how, by trying to boil him in the pot that still holds the memory of the wolf’s demise, so of course the brick building pig finds them out.

But modern books pose a different problem. They present harder choices. It’s no longer fairy tale endings we are talking about, but the other stuff, more realistic, stronger, difficult, and maybe not happy-ever-after stuff. ~ Jane Yolen,
475:Your curse still isn't really broken. The castle and everyone in it have been forgotten. No one remembers this place. You could find all les charmantes and bring them here. Bring them home. And get yourself... uncursed."
"Hmmm," Rosalind said, thinking. "Not bad. It's an odd idea, considering this is the place we almost came to our end... but it's intriguing. Yes, I like it. Go find everyone and bring them home. Really, it's the least you could do after what your parents did."
Maurice might have given Rosalind a little frown at that last bit, but she shrugged.
The Beast blinked. "Go... find them? Me?"
"Yes. Why not?" Belle said with a smile, reading his thoughts. "You would have to actually go out into the world that you've been watching for so long in your magic mirror."
"With you," the Beast said without missing a beat. "I could do anything, with you."
Belle grinned and started to answer...
... and then saw Maurice and Rosalind, who were both watching her to see what she would do.
Belle had a family again. She had a mother- the most interesting, perplexing mother in the world- whom she had just met. There was too much to ask her, to talk about.
But this was finally her chance to go out on those adventures she had always dreamed of. Abandoned Greek islands, the hearts of never-before-seen forests, even Paris and Rome.... They would travel the world looking for reclusive charmantes to bring home. Who knew what they might see! ~ Liz Braswell,
476:Once upon a time, powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad.

The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take notice of them.

When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. The marched on the castle and called for his abdication.

In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: ‘Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.’

And that was what they did: The king and queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such ‘wisdom’, why not allow him to rule the country?

The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days. ~ Paulo Coelho,
477:It is the custom on the stage: in all good, murderous melodramas: to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky, well-cured bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; and, in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger; drawing forth a dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and, just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard: and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle: where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on; which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous. ~ Charles Dickens,
478:The last slide is Main Street at night, with the castle lit silver blue in the background. In the sky, fireworks are going off, cresting, cracking open the darkness, shooting long tendrils of colored light down to the buildings, way longer than I’ve ever seen for fireworks… I linger on this slide. I study that blue castle and those fireworks and realize that this is the image I’ve had in my head of Disneyland for all these years. Just like the beginning of the Wonderful World of Disney TV show. Maybe that’s why I wanted to head here this time. I know it’s ridiculous, but part of me wants to think that the world after this one could look like that.
Like I said before, I stopped having notions about religion and heaven long ago—angels and harps and clouds and all that malarkey. Yet some silly, childish side of me still wants to believe in something like this. A gleaming world of energy and light, where nothing is quite the same color as it is on earth—everything bluer, greener, redder. Or maybe we just become the colors, that light spilling from the sky over the castle. Perhaps it would be somewhere we’ve already been, the place we were before we were born, so dying is simply a return. I guess is that were true then somehow we’d remember it. Maybe that’s what I’m doing with this whole trip—looking for somewhere that I remember, deep in some crevice of my soul.
Who knows? Maybe Disneyland is heaven. Isn’t that the damnedest, craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Must be the dope talking.
(pp.253-254) ~ Michael Zadoorian,
479: The Ogre Slam-The-Door
There is a certain castle that is beautiful and fair,
And plants, and birds, and pretty things, fill every room and hall,
But alas! for the unhappy folks who make their dwelling there,
A dreadful ogre haunts the house and tries to kill them all.
Some day I fear will find them dead and stretched out in their gore
The victims of this ogre grim, this wicked Slam-the-door!
He's a very tiny ogre just about as tall as you!
He never carries hidden arms, or plays with guns and knives.
And yet he almost splits the heads of people thro' and thro.'
And I think him very dangerous to comfort and to lives.
And he often shakes the castle from the ceiling to the floor.
This awful, awful ogre known as little Slam-the-door.
He gets up bright and early, and he's, oh, so wide awake!
And wo! to all the sleepy heads and invalids who doze,
They dream the sky is caving in, or that a vast earthquake
Has suddenly convulsed the world and ended their repose,
As to and fro, and up and down, still noisier than before,
They hear the hurrying, flurrying feet of ogre Slam-the-door.
Though the Princess of the Castle has a headache, and is ill,
Though the Prince is in his study and wants quiet for an hour,
This wicked little ogre won't be quiet-or keep still
I almost think he sometimes knows he has them in his power.
Alas, alas for all the folks, their sorrows I deploreThe folks shut in that castle with the ogre Slam-the-door.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
480: The Man Who Was Away
The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow,
She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe.
She said, "My husband took to drink for pains in his inside,
And never drew a sober breath from then until he died.
"He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will,
And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouth to fill.
There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet,
And times is very bad indeed -- a livin's hard to get.
"There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me,
And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bidgeree.
And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh
And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away."
The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue -"There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you;
There's Sarah, Frederick and Charles, I'll write to them today,
But what about the other son -- the one who is away?
"You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land."
The widow shuffled in her seat, "Oh, don't you understand?
I thought a lawyer ought to know -- I don't know what to say -You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away."
But here the little boy spoke up -- said he, "We thought you knew;
He's done six months in Goulburn gaol -- he's got six more to do."
Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day,
The mystery of Peter's life -- the man who was away.
~ Banjo Paterson,
481:The boy…Is he dead?”
There was complete silence in the clearing. Nobody approached Harry, but he felt their concentrated gaze; it seemed to press him harder into the ground, and he was terrified a finger or an eyelid might twitch.
“You,” said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”
Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He could only lie there, with his heart thumping traitorously, and wait to be examined, but at the same time noting, small comfort though it was, that Voldemort was wary of approaching him, that Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan…
Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched Harry’s face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath his shirt, down to his chest, and felt his heart. He could hear the woman’s fast breathing, her long hair tickled his face. He knew that she could feel the steady pounding of life against his ribs.
Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”
The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielded his face from the onlookers.
Yes,” he breathed back.
He felt the hand on his chest contract; her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.
“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.
And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph. Narcissa knew that the only way she would be permitted to enter Hogwarts, and find her son, was as part of the conquering army. She no longer cared whether Voldemort won. ~ J K Rowling,
482:Sir Gerek handed her a gray wool blanket, then lay down next to the fire.
"Don't you have a blanket?"
"I forgot to get one when we were at the castle, but I don't need one. It's warm enough now."
"The nights are still quite cool. Here you take the blanket and I will put on the rest of my clothes. It's the perfect solution."
"No, thank you. I don't need it."
She let out an exasperated sigh...
...Sir Gerek was laying down near the fire, his eyes closed. Rapunzel moved as quietly as she could toward his still form, then carefully laid the the blanket over him.
She lay down with her head near his and closed her eyes.
Her eyes popped open. Something was touching her legs and was gradually being laid over the rest of her body. She suspected it was the gray woolen blanket she had laid on Sir Gerek. When he finished, he walked back over to where he had been sleeping and lay down again.

Gerek awoke with the blanket laying over him. How had she managed to cover him without him waking up? He sat up. She lay asleep on her side, her thick braid touching her cheek. The sun was casting a soft glow over her and making her look even more otherworldly.
He found himself smiling as he draped the blanket over her while she slept.
When she awoke, he already had Donner saddled and breakfast ready.
"When did you do this?" She held out the blanket. With the scolding half frown and lowered her brows, she took his breath away...
... He shrugged. "You looked cold."
She eyed him, shook her head, then folded up the blanket. ~ Melanie Dickerson,
483:Royce found Hadrian splitting logs near the stockade gate. He was naked to the waist except for the small silver medallion that dangled from his neck as he bent forward to place another wedge. He had a solid sweat worked up along with a sizable pile of wood.

“Been meddling, have you?” Royce asked, looking around at the hive of activity.

“You must admit they didn’t have much in the way of a defense plan,” Hadrian said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Royce smiled at him. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“And you? Did you find the doorknob?”

Hadrian picked up a jug and downed several swallows, drinking so quickly some of the water dripped down his chin. He poured some in his palm and rinsed his face, running his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t even get close enough to see a door.”

“Well, look on the bright side”—Hadrian smiled—“at least you weren’t captured and condemned to death this time.”

“That’s the bright side?”

“What can I say? I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.”

There he is,” Russell Bothwick shouted, pointing. “That’s Royce over there.”

“What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior.

“I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-empty kinda guy.”

“Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled. “Was there ever any drink in that glass? ~ Michael J Sullivan,
484:Catherine Marks came to stand on the other side of the doorway as if she were a fellow sentinel guarding the castle gate. Leo glanced at her covertly. She was dressed in lavender, unlike her usual drab of colors. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into such a tight chignon as to make it difficult for her to blink. The spectacles sat oddly on her nose, one of the wire earpieces crimped. It gave her the appearance of a befuddled owl.
"What are you looking at?" she asked tersely.
"Your spectacles are crooked," Leo said, trying not to smile.
She scowled. "I tried to fix them, but it only made them worse."
"Give them to me." Before she could object, he took them from her face and began to fiddle with the bent wire.
She spluttered in protest. "My lord, I didn't ask you to- if you damage them-"
"How did you bend the earpiece?" Leo asked, patiently straightening the wire.
"I dropped them on the floor, and as I was searching, I stepped on them."
"Nearsighted, are you?"
Having reshaped the earpiece, Leo scrutinized the spectacles carefully. "There." He began to give them to her and paused as he stared into her eyes, all blue, green, and gray, contained in distinct dark rims. Brilliant, warm, changeable. Like opals. Why had he never noticed them before?
Awareness chased over him, making his skin prickle as if exposed to a sudden change in temperature. She wasn't plain at all. She was beautiful, in a fine, subtle way, like winter moonlight, or the sharp linen smell of daisies. So cool and pale... delicious. For a moment, Leo couldn't move. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
485:Why do you want to know?”
The shrug again. “Just wondering.”
“Really. You’ve skipped your lawn tennis or duck hunting or whiskey drinking or whatever else people of your sort do all day, only to come all the way out to the island to ask me about the piano piece. Because you were just wondering.” I pushed away from the door. “Coming here to kiss me would have been more believable.”
“Well, it was second on my list.”
“I’m not intimidated by you,” I said, blunt. “If you’re hoping I’ll turn out to be some pathetic, blubbering little rag-girl who begs you not to ruin her, you’re in for a surprise.”
“That’s good.” Lord Armand met my eyes. “I like surprises.”
We gazed at each other, he on the bed and me by the door, neither of us giving quarter. It seemed to me that the room was growing even more dim, that time was repeating the same ploy it had pulled in Jesse’s cottage, drawing out long and slow. The storm outside railed against the castle walls, drowning the air within. It layered darkness through Armand’s eyes, the once-vivid blue now deep as the ocean at night.
Beyond my window the rain fell and fell, fat clouds weeping as if they’d never stop.
“Nice bracelet,” Armand said softly. “Did you steal it?”
I shook my head. “You gave it to me.”
“Did I?”
“As far as everyone else if concerned, yes. You did.”
“Hmm. And what do I get in return for agreeing to be your…benefactor?”
“The answer to your question.”
“No kiss?” he asked, even softer.
His lips quirked. “All right, then, waif. I accept your terms. We’ll try the kiss later. ~ Shana Abe,
486:O King Arthur, mine uncle, my good brother Sir Gareth is slain, and Sir Gaheris also,’ and the King wept with him. At length Sir Gawaine said, ‘ Sir, I will go and see my brother Sir Gareth.’ ‘ You cannot do that,’ returned the King, ‘for I have caused him to be buried with Sir Gaheris, as I knew well that the sight would cause you overmuch sorrow.’ ‘How came he, Sir Lancelot, to slay Sir Gareth ?’ asked Sir Gawaine; ‘mine own good lord, I pray you tell me, for neither Sir Gareth nor Sir Gaheris bore arms against him.’ ‘It is said,’ answered the King, ‘that Sir Lancelot slew them in the thickest of the press and knew them not. Therefore let us think upon a plan to avenge their deaths.’ ‘My King, my lord and mine uncle,’ said Sir Gawaine, ‘ I swear to you by my knighthood that from this day I will never rest until Sir Lancelot or I be slain. And I will go to the world’s end till I find him.’ ‘ You need not seek him so far,’ answered the King, ‘ for I am told that Sir Lancelot will await me and you in the Castle of Joyous Gard, and many people are flocking to him. But call your friends together, and I will call mine,’ and the King ordered letters to be sent throughout all England summoning his Knights and vassals to the siege of Joyous Gard. The Castle of Joyous Gard was strong, and after fifteen weeks had passed no breach had been made in its walls. And one day, at the time of harvest, Sir Lancelot came forth on a truce, and the King and Sir Gawaine challenged him to do battle. ‘Nay,’ answered Sir Lancelot, ‘with yourself I will never strive, and I grieve sorely that I have slain your Knights. ~ Andrew Lang,
487:A young woman stepped in front of the dais and cleared her throat. She had reddish-brown hair that hung in loose waves down her back. Her figure was slender and regal, and Ian could have easily drowned in her emerald eyes. But what captured his attention the most was the way the lass carried herself—confident, yet seemingly unaware of her true beauty.
She wore a black gown with hanging sleeves, and the embroidered petticoat under her skirts was lined in gray. With the added reticella lace collar and cuffs dyed with yellow starch, she looked as though she should have been at the English court rather than in the Scottish Highlands.
“Pardon me, Ruairi. Ravenna wanted me to tell you that we’re taking little Mary to the beach. We won’t be long. We’ll be in the garden until the mounts are readied, if you need us.”
When the woman’s eyes met Ian’s, something clicked in his mind. His face burned as he remembered. He shifted in the seat and pulled his tunic away from his chest. Why was the room suddenly hot? He felt like he was suffocating in the middle of the Sutherland great hall.
God help him.
This was the same young chit who had pined after him, following him around the castle and nipping at his heels like Angus, Ruairi’s black wolf. But like everything else that had transformed around here, so had she. She was no longer a girl but had become an enchantress—still young, but beautiful nevertheless. His musings were interrupted by a male voice.
“Munro, ye do remember Lady Elizabeth, eh?”
How could he forget the reason why he’d avoided Sutherland lands for the past three years? ~ Victoria Roberts,
488:Before Iris had an opportunity to respond, a loud noise, one that almost sounded like some type of animal, suddenly drifted into the drawing room from the hallway—mixed with the sound of what could only be pounding feet. Immediately heading for the door, Bram stopped in his tracks when he reached the hall and a sight he’d certainly not been expecting to see met his gaze. Miss Plum was running toward him, her gown practically falling off her, as if it hadn’t been fastened all the way up in the back. She didn’t seem at all concerned with the idea that she was giving him, and anyone else, an eyeful of her chemise, corset, and . . . charms—probably because she was running as if her very life depended on it, holding up the skirt of her dress as she flew ever closer to him, the lifting of that skirt giving him an unobstructed view of legs that were well turned out and feet that were . . . bare. “Don’t just stand there, Mr. Haverstein. Do something about your goat,” she yelled as she pounded past him. The word goat had him looking down the hallway, and sure enough, a goat was charging his way, and not just any goat, but Geoffrey—one of the meanest goats Bram had ever had the misfortune of owning. What the beast was doing inside the castle, he really couldn’t say, but since Geoffrey held an intense dislike for females, or more specifically, females wearing dresses, Bram surged into motion, hoping to intercept the goat before it managed to catch up with Miss Plum. Unfortunately, Geoffrey seemed determined to get past Bram, so with a butt of its head, it sent Bram sprawling and continued charging after its prey, bleating in a menacing sort of way. ~ Jen Turano,
489: The Bonnie House O' Airlie
IT fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day,
When green grew aits and barley,
That there fell out a great dispute
Between Argyll and Airlie.
Argyll has raised an hunder men,
An hunder harness'd rarely,
And he 's awa' by the back of Dunkell,
To plunder the castle of Airlie.
Lady Ogilvie looks o'er her bower-window,
And O but she looks warely!
And there she spied the great Argyll,
Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.
'Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie,
Come down and kiss me fairly:'
'O I winna kiss the fause Argyll,
If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.'
He hath taken her by the left shoulder,
Says, 'Dame, where lies thy dowry?'
'O it 's east and west yon wan water side,
And it 's down by the banks of the Airlie.'
They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down,
They hae sought it maist severely,
Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree
That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.
He hath taken her by the middle sae small,
And O but she grat sairly!
And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side,
Til they plunder'd the castle of Airlie.
'Gif my gude lord war here this night,
As he is with King Charlie,
Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,
Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.
'Gif my gude lord war now at hame,
As he is with his king,
There durst nae a Campbell in a' Argyll
Set fit on Airlie green.
'Then bonnie sons I have borne unto him,
The eleventh ne'er saw his daddy;
But though I had an hunder mair,
I'd gie them a' to King Charlie!'
~ Anonymous,
490: The Barbarous Chief
There was a kingdom known as the Mind,
A kingdom vast as fair,
And the brave king, Brain, had the right to reign,
In royal splendor there.
Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land,
Which unto this king was given;
Filled with everything good and grand,
And it reached from earth to heaven.
But a savage monster came one day
From over a distant border;
He warred with the king and disputed his sway,
And set the whole land in disorder.
He mounted the throne, which he made his own,
He sunk the kingdom in grief.
There was trouble and shame from the hour he cameIlltemper, the barbarous chief.
He threw down the castles of love and peace,
He burned up the altars of prayers.
He trod down the grain that was planted by Brain,
And scattered thistles and tares.
He wasted the store-house of knowledge and drove
Queen Wisdom away in fright;
And a terrible gloom, like the cloud of doom,
Shrouded that land in night.
Bent on more havoc away he rushed
To the neighboring kingdom, Heart;
And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushedAnd patience he pierced with his dart,
And he even went on to the Isthmus Soul,
That unites the mind with God,
And its beautiful bowers of fragrant flowers
With a ruthless heel he trod.
To you is given this wonderful land
Where the lordly Brain has sway;
But the border ruffian is near at hand,
Be on your guard, I pray.
Beware of Illtemper, the barbarous chief,
He is cruel as vice or sin,
And your beautiful kingdom will come to grief
If once you let him in.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
491:The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time, he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger, that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. “But he cannot flourish without this diet, he eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him eat, never! He throws no shadow, he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand, witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolves, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog, he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. “He can come in mist which he create, that noble ship’s captain proved him of this, but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. “He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust, as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small, we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire, solder you call it. He can see in the dark, no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. ~ Bram Stoker,
492:softly. “Not much you can say to a story like that, is there?” “Not really.” “Yep, I win on the ol’ dramatic story front every time.” They stood in silence for a while. Despite the warmth of the night it was chilly up there, but Stephanie didn’t mind. “What happens now?” she asked. “The Elders go to war. They’ll find the castle empty – Serpine wouldn’t stay there after this – so they’ll be looking for him. They’ll also be tracking down his old allies to make sure they don’t get the opportunity to organise.” “And what do we do?” “We get to the Sceptre before Serpine.” “The key,” she said, “where is it?” He turned to her. “Gordon hid it. Clever man, your uncle. He didn’t think anyone should have access to that weapon, but he hid the key in a place where if we truly needed to find it, if the situation got so dire that we truly needed the Sceptre, all it would take was a little detective work.” “So where is it?” “The piece of advice he gave me, in the solicitor’s office, do you remember what it was?” “He said a storm is coming.” “And he also said that sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us and sometimes it is right before our eyes.” “He was talking about the key, literally? It’s right before our eyes?” “It was, when those words were first spoken in the solicitor’s office.” “Fedgewick has the key?” “Not Fedgewick. He gave it away.” Stephanie frowned, remembering the reading of the will then the lock in the cellar, no bigger than Skulduggery’s palm. She looked up at him. “Not the brooch?” “The brooch.” “Gordon gave the key, the key to the most powerful weapon in existence, to Fergus and Beryl?” she asked incredulously. “Why would he do that?” “Would ~ Derek Landy,
493:Alex was so confused, she shook her head. The others felt their sanity slipping from their brains just by being in proximity to the caterpillar.
This is going great," Conner said with a massive eye roll. "This worm is clearly insane; let's find someone who can actually help us."
"Let me handle this one, kids," Mother Goose said. "He's not crazy, the hookah is just making his brain sleepy. I might understand him if I get on his level."
Mother Goose walked up to the caterpillar and had a bouncy seat on the mushroom beside him.
"May I?" she asked, and gestured to the hookah.
The caterpillar passed it to her and Mother Goose smoked it. After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense.
"Who are you?" Mother Goose asked the caterpillar.
"What I am," he said.
"Where are you?" she said.
"Here with you," the caterpillar said.
"And if this were the Castle of Hearts?" Mother Goose asked.
"We'd be there," he said.
"But where?" she asked.
"In the castle," he said.
"Ah, so there would be here,: she said, and they nodded together.
"Here would be what's left." The caterpillar nodded.
"Am I what's left?" she asked.
"You're what's right, of course."
"But what's right is wrong."
"And what's left is right."
"I understand completely," Mother Goose said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar."
The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them.
:The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left," she said.
"He did?" Alex asked.
"It's all about the keywords," Mother Goose said. ~ Chris Colfer,
494:p2 I'd seen a photo of the actual red and white checked notebook that was Anne [Frank]'s first diary. I longed to own a similar notebook. Stationery was pretty dire back in the late fifties and early sixties. There was no such thing as Paperchase. I walked round and round the stationery counter in Woolworths and spent most of my pocket money on notebooks, but they weren't strong on variety. You could have shiny red sixpenny notebooks, lined inside, with strange maths details about rods and poles and perches on the back. (I never found out what they were!) Then you could have shiny blue sixpenny notebooks. That was your lot.
I was enchanted to read in Dodie Smith's novel I Capture The Castle that the heroine, Cassandra, was writing her diary in a similar sixpenny notebook. She eventually progressed to a shilling notebook. My Woolworths rarely stocked such expensive luxuries. Then, two thirds of the way through the book, Cassandra is given a two-guinea red leather manuscript book. I lusted after that fictional notebook for years.
I told my mother, Biddy. She rolled her eyes. It could have cost two hundred guineas - both were way out of our league... My dad, Harry, was a civil servant. One of the few perks of his job was that he had an unlimited illegal supply of notepads watermarked SO - Stationery Office. I'd drawn on these pads for years, I'd scribbled stories, I'd written letters. They were serviceable but unexciting: thin cream paper unreliably bound with glue at the top. You couldn't write a journal with these notepads; it would fall apart in days... My spelling wasn't too hot. It still isn't. Thank goodness for the spellcheck on my computer! ~ Jacqueline Wilson,
495:But Charles, at that very moment, was roving the house in search of Amy.  He had stayed at the ball only long enough to claim the first dance with his sister; then, when the dancing was in full swing, he'd melted into the crush, strode through the doors leading back to the main part of the castle, and gone looking for Amy. But she was not in her rooms.  She was not in the dining room, the library, or wandering the halls.  It wasn't until he strode into the Gold Parlor and found Juliet — who would not, of course, be attending the ball in her advanced condition — quietly working on a piece of embroidery, that Charles got the first clue to her whereabouts. He bowed to his sister-in-law, who looked up at him in some surprise. "Why, hello, Charles.  What are you doing out here?  You look most annoyed." "Amy.  I can't find her anywhere, haven't seen her all day and I'm sick to death of everyone monopolizing her time.  You haven't seen her, have you?" Juliet looked at him peculiarly, then lowered her needlework, a little smile touching her lips.  "Actually, I have.  You might try checking the ballroom." "She wouldn't be in there." Juliet's eyes sparkled with mirth.  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." At that moment Gareth, who was dividing his time between his wife and the ball, entered the room, fashionably splendid in raspberry silk, tight breeches, and shoes sporting huge Artois buckles.  In his hand were two glasses, one of sherry, the other of cider, the latter of which he handed to his wife.  He had caught the tail end of the conversation. "Yes, you really should check the ballroom, Charles," he said, his own blue eyes twinkling. Was there some damned conspiracy going on here?  ~ Danelle Harmon,
496:Bringing the horse to a stop, Lucetta leaned forward and looked down a well-maintained lane that led directly to what seemed to be some type of a gatehouse, but a gatehouse built to look exactly like a mausoleum, complete with stained-glass windows, stone sculptures on either side of it—not of the expected angels, but of . . . ravens. Turning to Abigail, Lucetta arched a brow. “Should we drive closer?” “I don’t think this could possibly be the lane leading to Bram’s castle,” Abigail said. “I mean, why would anyone build a mausoleum to mark the entrance to their home?” “I have numerous answers to that, but none I’m going to voice until we discover whether or not your grandson resides here. Which, I’m sorry to say, could be a distinct possibility, since the castle’s name is Ravenwood and there are two ravens guarding that building, and . . . if you look over the door, Ravenwood is etched into the stone.” “Oh . . . dear.” Abigail pulled a pair of spectacles out of her pocket, shoved them on, and then looked closely at the building in front of them before immediately pulling the spectacles off again and repocketing them, shuddering ever so slightly as she did so. “Would it be safe to say that your grandson possesses a slightly morbid nature?” Lucetta asked. “Of course not. Bram’s charming, and . . . the ladies find him to be completely delightful, from what I’ve been told—as I do believe I’ve mentioned to you a few times.” Before Lucetta could reply to that, the door to the mausoleum opened with an ominous creak. Abigail grabbed hold of Lucetta’s hand and squeezed it, the squeezing becoming more pronounced as a man stepped through the door—a man who just happened to be carrying a rifle. ~ Jen Turano,
497:Harry!” he panted, massaging his immense chest beneath his emerald-green silk pajamas. “My dear boy…what a surprise…Minerva, do please explain…Severus…what…?”
“Our headmaster is taking a short break,” said Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped hole in the window.
“Professor!” Harry shouted, his hands at his forehead. He could see the Inferi-filled lake sliding beneath him, and he felt the ghostly green boat bump into the underground shore, and Voldemort leapt from it with murder in his heart--
“Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s coming now!”
“Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” she told the other teachers. Sprout and Flitwick gasped; Slughorn let out a low groan. “Potter has work to do in the castle on Dumbledore’s orders. We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Potter does what he needs to do.”
“You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” squeaked Flitwick.
“But we can hold him up,” said Professor Sprout.
“Thank you, Pomona,” said Professor McGonagall, and between the two witches there passed a look of grim understanding. “I suggest we establish basic protection around the place, then gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, though if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.”
“Agreed,” said Professor Sprout, already hurrying toward the door. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes with my House.”
And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her muttering, “Tentacula. Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff pods…yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting those. ~ J K Rowling,
498: For Catherine: Juana, Infanta Of Navarre
Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.
With a Casanova's careful art,
he moved slowly,
stole only one child at a time
through tunnels specially dug
behind the walls of her royal
chamber, then paid the Duenna
well to remember nothing
but his appreciation.
Imagine how quietly
the servants must have worked,
loosening the dirt, the muffled
ring of pick-ends against
the castle stone. The Duenna,
one eye gauging the drugged girl's
sleep, each night handing over
another light parcel, another
small body vanished
through the mouth of a hole.
Once you were a daughter, too,
then a wife and now the mother
of a baby with a Spanish name.
Paloma, you call her, little dove;
she sleeps in a room beyond you.
Your husband, too, works late,
drinks too much at night, comes
home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk
in the corner of the queen-sized bed.
You've confessed, you can't feel things
when they touch you;
take Prozac for depression, Ativan
for the buzz. Drunk, you call your father
who doesn't want to claim
a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.
No one remembers Juana; almost
everything's forgotten in time,
and if I tell her story,
it's only when guessing
what she loved, what she dreamed
about, the lost details of a life
that barely survives history.
God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out
from a hole. The Duenna, in spite
of her black, widow's veil, leaning
to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen...
~ Erin Belieu,
499:I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great Hall in twenty minutes, also,” said Professor McGonagall. “If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.”
“Minerva!” he said, aghast.
“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties,” interrupted Professor McGonagall. “Go and wake your students, Horace.”
Harry did not stay to watch Slughorn splutter: He and Luna ran after Professor McGonagall, who had taken up a position in the middle of the corridor and raised her wand.
Piertotum--oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now--”
The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view, shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the corridors!”
“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” shouted McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive! Find Peeves!”
“P-Peeves?” stammered Filch as though he had never heard the name before.
“Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven’t you been complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go and fetch him, at once!”
Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had taken leave of her senses, but hobbled away, hunch-shouldered, muttering under his breath.
“And now--Piertotum Locomotor!” cried Professor McGonagall.
And all along the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Harry knew that their fellows throughout the castle had done the same.
“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school! ~ J K Rowling,
500:He’d never taken the sheep to this particular pasture before, and it had been quite the feat, getting his less than trained band of mutts to herd them such a distance. But he’d needed to get as far away from the castle as possible—or rather, get as far away from Miss Lucetta Plum as possible—because quite honestly, he’d needed to seek out a place of peace and quiet in order to finally sort out his thoughts. Lifting his face to the late October sun, he realized that the only thing he’d managed to sort out during the numerous hours he’d been avoiding the castle was the fact that he’d made a complete idiot of himself with Lucetta. He certainly hadn’t intended to offer her a marriage proposal in such an impulsive manner. It had just happened. But then, when she’d very kindly turned down his offer, in a tone of voice one usually reserved for the very ill, he’d begun to get the most unpleasant feeling that he might have spent three very long years pining after a woman who didn’t actually exist. The woman he’d thought he was in love with was a most delicate sort, fragile, needy, a bit melancholy upon occasion, and too beautiful for words, of course. While Lucetta’s beauty was even more impressive close up, that was seemingly the only thing he’d gotten right about the lady. She was not delicate in the least, and didn’t appear to possess a melancholy demeanor. The case couldn’t even be made that she was fragile, considering she’d managed to outrun a goat bent on bodily harm, without dissolving into a bout of hysterics. In all honesty, the best word to describe Miss Lucetta Plum was . . . practical. It was a disappointing word—practical—not romantic at all, and certainly not a word he’d ever thought he’d be using in regard to Lucetta. The ~ Jen Turano,

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)


   1 Occultism

   2 Italo Calvino

   5 The Interior Castle or The Mansions
   3 The Hero with a Thousand Faces
   2 The Divine Comedy
   2 The Castle of Crossed Destinies

07.05_-_The_Finding_of_the_Soul, #Savitri, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Which thinking mind has made its busy space,
  In the Castle of the lotus twixt the brows
  Whence it shoots the arrows of its sight and will,

1.01_-_Description_of_the_Castle, #The Interior Castle or The Mansions, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
  object:1.01 - Description of the Castle
  THE FIRST MANSIONS:Chapter I. Description of the Castle
    1. Plan of this book. 2. The Interior Castle. 3. Our curable self ignorance. 4. God dwells in the centre of the soul. 5. Why all souls do not receive certain favours. 6. Reasons for speaking of these favours. 7. The entrance of the Castle. 8. Entering into oneself. 9. Prayer. 10. Those who dwell in the first mansion. 11. Entering. 12. Difficulties of the subject.
  3.: As this is so, we need not tire ourselves by trying to realize all the beauty of this castle, although, being His creature, there is all the difference between the soul and God that there is between the creature and the Creator; the fact that it is made in God's image teaches us how great are its dignity and loveliness. It is no small misfortune and disgrace that, through our own fault, we neither understand our nature nor our origin. Would it not be gross ignorance, my daughters, if, when a man was questioned about his name, or country, or parents, he could not answer? Stupid as this would be, it is unspeakably more foolish to care to learn nothing of our nature except that we possess bodies, and only to realize vaguely that we have souls, because people say so and it is a doctrine of faith. Rarely do we reflect upon what gifts our souls may possess, Who dwells within them, or how extremely precious they are. Therefore we do little to preserve their beauty; all our care is concentrated on our bodies, which are but the coarse setting of the diamond, or the outer walls of the Castle.6
  8.: Certain books on prayer that you have read advise the soul to enter into itself,10' and this is what I mean. I was recently told by a great theologian that souls without prayer are like bodies, palsied and lame, having hands and feet they cannot use.' Just so, there are souls so infirm and accustomed to think of nothing but earthly matters, that there seems no cure for them. It appears impossible for them to retire into their own hearts; accustomed as they are to be with the reptiles and other creatures which live outside the Castle, they have come at last to imitate their habits. Though these souls are by their nature so richly endowed, capable of communion even with God Himself, yet their case seems hopeless. Unless they endeavour to understand and remedy their most miserable plight, their minds will become, as it were, bereft of movement, just as Lot's wife became a pillar of salt for looking backwards in disobedience to God's command.11
  10.: Let us speak no more of these crippled souls, who are in a most miserable and dangerous state, unless our Lord bid them rise, as He did the palsied man who had waited more than thirty years at the pool of Bethsaida.13' We will now think of the others who at last enter the precincts of the Castle; they are still very worldly, yet have some desire to do right, and at times, though rarely, commend themselves to God's care. They think about their souls every now and then; although very busy, they pray a few times a month, with minds generally filled with a thousand other matters, for where their treasure is, there is their heart also.14' Still, occasionally they cast aside these cares; it is a great boon for them to realize to some extent the state of their souls, and to see that they will never reach the gate by the road they are following.
  11.: At length they enter the first rooms in the basement of the Castle, accompanied by numerous reptiles15' which disturb their peace, and prevent their seeing the beauty of the building; still, it is a great gain that these persons should have found their way in at all.

1.01_-_the_Call_to_Adventure, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
  many things, simply marveled every time it shone on her face.
  Now close to the Castle of this king was a great dark forest, and
  in the forest under an old lime tree a spring, and when the day

1.01_-_The_Castle, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  object:1.01 - the Castle
  class:the Castle of Crossed Destinies
  the Castle
  In the midst of a thick forest, there was a castle that gave shelter to all travelers overtaken by night on their journey: lords and ladies, royalty and their retinue, humble wayfarers.
  As I looked around, I felt a curious sensation, or, rather, two distinct sensations, which mingled in my mind, still upset and somewhat unstable in my weariness. I seemed to be at a sumptuous court, which no one would have expected to find in such a rustic and out-of-the-way castle; and its wealth was evident not only in the costly furnishings and the graven vessels, but also in the calm and ease which reigned among those at the table, all handsome of person and clothed with elaborate elegance. But, at the same time, I remarked a feeling of random, of disorder, if not actually of license, as if this were not a lordly dwelling but an inn of passage, where people unknown to one another live together for one night and where, in that enforced promiscuity, all feel a relaxation of the rules by which they live in their own surroundings, and-as one resigns oneself to less comfortable ways of life-so one also indulges in freer, unfamiliar behavior. In fact, the two contradictory impressions could nevertheless refer to a single object: whether the Castle, for years visited only as a stopping place, had gradually degenerated into an inn, and the lord and his lady had found themselves reduced to the roles of host and hostess, though still going through the motions of their aristocratic hospitality; or whether a tavern, such as one often sees in the vicinity of castles, to give drink to soldiers and horsemen, had invaded-the Castle being long abandoned-the ancient, noble halls to install its benches and hogsheads there, and the pomp of those rooms-as well as the coming and going of illustrious customers-had conferred on the inn an unforeseen dignity, sufficient to put ideas in the heads of the host and hostess, who finally came to believe themselves the rulers of a brilliant court.
  When our supper ended in a muteness which the sounds of chewing and the smacking of lips gulping wine did not make more pleasant, we remained seated, looking one another in the face, with the torment of not being able to exchange the many experiences each of us had to communicate. At that point, on the table which had just been cleared, the man who seemed the lord of the Castle set a pack of playing cards. They were tarot cards, larger than the kind we use for ordinary games or that gypsies employ for predicting the future, but it was possible to discern more or less the same figures that are painted in the enamels of the most precious miniatures. Kings, Queens, Knights, and Pages were all young people magnificently dressed, as if for a princely feast; the twenty-two Major Arcana seemed the tapestries of a court theater; and cups, coins, swords, clubs shone like heraldic devices adorned with scrolls and arabesques.

1.01_-_The_Path_of_Later_On, #Words Of Long Ago, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  "The path of later-on and the road of tomorrow lead only to the Castle of nothing-at-all."
  Hollow voices cry out to the traveller, "Flee this place; go back to the cross-roads; there is still time." The young man hesitates, then replies, "Tomorrow." He covers his face with his hands so as not to see the bodies rolling into the ravine, and runs along the road, drawn on by an irresistible urge to go forward. He no longer wonders whether he will find a way out. With furrowed brow and clothes in disorder, he runs on in desperation. At last, thinking himself far away from the accursed place, he opens his eyes: there are no more fir-trees; all around are barren stones and grey dust. The sun has disappeared beyond the horizon; night is coming on. The road has lost itself in an endless desert. The desperate traveller, worn out by his long run, wants to stop; but he must walk on. All around him is ruin; he hears stifled cries; his feet stumble on skeletons. In the distance, the thick mist takes on terrifying shapes; black forms loom up; something huge and misshapen suggests itself. The traveller flies rather than walks towards the goal he senses and which seems to flee from him; wild cries direct his steps; he brushes against phantoms. At last he sees before him a huge edifice, dark, desolate, gloomy, a castle to make one say with a shudder: "A haunted castle." But the young man pays no attention to the bleakness of the place; these great black walls make no impression on him; as he stands on the dusty ground, he hardly trembles at the sight of these formidable towers; he thinks only that the goal is reached, he forgets his weariness and discouragement. As he approaches the Castle, he brushes against a wall, and the wall crumbles; instantly everything collapses around him; towers, battlements, walls have vanished, sinking into dust which is added to the dust already covering the ground.
  The traveller is at the edge of the gulf. All his efforts have been in vain. After a supreme struggle he falls... from his bed. A young student had a long essay to prepare for the following morning. A little tired by his day's work, he had said to himself as he arrived home, "I shall work later." Soon afterwards he thought that if he went to bed early, he could get up early the next morning and quickly finish his task. "Let's go to bed," he said to himself, "I shall work better tomorrow; I shall sleep on it." He did not know how truly he spoke. His sleep was troubled by the terrible nightmare we have described, and his fall awoke him with a start. Thinking over what he had dreamt, he exclaimed, "But it's quite clear: the path is called the path of 'later on', the road is the road of 'tomorrow' and the great building the Castle of 'nothing at all'." Elated at his cleverness, he set to work, vowing to himself that he would never put off until tomorrow what he could do today.

1.02_-_The_Human_Soul, #The Interior Castle or The Mansions, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
    1. Effects of mortal sin. 2. It prevents the soul's gaining merit. 3. The soul compared to a tree. 4. Disorder of the soul in mortal sin. 5. Vision of a sinful soul. 6. Profit of realizing these lessons. 7. Prayer. 8. Beauty of the Castle. 9. Self-knowledge 10. Gained by meditating on the divine perfections. 11. Advantages of such meditation. 12. Christ should be our model. 13. The devil entraps beginners. 14. Our strength must come from God. 15. Sin blinds the soul. 16. Worldliness. 17. The world in the cloister. 18. Assaults of the devil. 19. Examples of the devil's arts. 20. Perfection consists in charity. 21. Indiscreet zeal. 22. Danger of detraction.
  4.: O souls, redeemed by the Blood of Jesus Christ, take these things to heart; have mercy on yourselves! If you realize your pitiable condition, how can you refrain from trying to remove the darkness from the crystal of your souls? Remember, if death should take you now, you would never again enjoy the light of this Sun. O Jesus! how sad a sight must be a soul deprived of light! What a terrible state the chambers of this castle are in! How disorderly must be the senses-the inhabitants of the Castle-the powers of the soul its magistrates, governors, and stewards-blind and uncontrolled as they are! In short, as the soil in which the tree is now planted is in the devil's domain, how can its fruit be anything but evil? A man of great spiritual insight once told me he was not so much surprised at such a soul's wicked deeds as astonished that it did not commit even worse sins. May God in His mercy keep us from such great evil, for nothing in this life merits the name of evil in comparison with this, which delivers us over to evil which is eternal.
  9.: A soul which gives itself to prayer, either much or little, should on no account be kept within narrow bounds. Since God has given it such great dignity, permit it to wander at will through the rooms of the Castle, from the lowest to the highest. Let it not force itself to remain for very long in the same mansion, even that of self-knowledge. Mark well, however, that self-knowledge is indispensable, even for those whom God takes to dwell in the same mansion with Himself. Nothing else, however elevated, perfects the soul which must never seek to forget its own nothingness. Let humility be always at work, like the bee at the honeycomb, or all will be lost. But, remember, the bee leaves its hive to fly in search of flowers and the soul should sometimes cease thinking of itself to rise in meditation on the grandeur and majesty of its God. It will learn its own baseness better thus than by self-contemplation, and will be freer from the reptiles which enter the first room where self-knowledge is acquired. The palmito here referred to is not a palm, but a shrub about four feet high and very dense with leaves, resembling palm leaves. The poorer classes and principally children dig it up by the roots, which they peel of its many layers until a sort of kernel is disclosed, which is eaten, not without relish, and is somewhat like a filbert in taste. See St. John of the Cross, Accent of Mount Carmel, bk. ii. ch, xiv, 3. Although it is a great grace from God to practise self-examination, yet 'too much is as bad as too little,' as they say; believe me, by God's help, we shall advance more by contemplating the Divinity than by keeping our eyes fixed on ourselves, poor creatures of earth that we are.
  15 :You must notice that the light which comes from the King's palace hardly shines at all in these first mansions; although not as gloomy and black as the soul in mortal sin, yet they are in semi-darkness, and their inhabitants see scarcely anything. I cannot explain myself; I do not mean that this is the fault of the mansions themselves, but that the number of snakes, vipers, and venomous reptiles from outside the Castle prevent souls entering them from seeing the light. They resemble a person entering a chamber full of brilliant sunshine, with eyes clogged and half closed with dust. Though the room itself is light, he cannot see because of his self-imposed impediment. In the same way, these fierce and wild beasts blind the eyes of the beginner, so that he sees nothing but them.
  16.: Such, it appears to me, is the soul which, though not in a state of mortal sin, is so worldly and preoccupied with earthly riches, honours, and affairs, that as I said, even if it sincerely wishes to enter into itself and enjoy the beauties of the Castle, it is prevented by these distractions and seems unable to overcome so many obstacles. It is most important to withdraw from all unnecessary cares and business, as far as compatible with the duties of one's state of life, in order to enter the second mansion. This is so essential, that unless done immediately I think it impossible for any one ever to reach the principal room, or even to remain where he is without great risk of losing what is already gained; otherwise, although he is inside the Castle, he will find it impossible to avoid being bitten some time or other by some of the very venomous creatures surrounding him.

1.02_-_The_Refusal_of_the_Call, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
  Dr. Jung has reported a dream that resembles very closely the image of the myth of Daphne. The dreamer is the same young man who found himself (supra, p. 55) in the land of the sheep the land, that is to say, of unindependence. A voice within him says, "I must first get away from the father"; then a few nights later: "a snake draws a circle about the dreamer, and he stands like a tree, grown fast to the earth." This is an image of the magic circle drawn about the personality by the dragon power of the fixating parent. Brynhild, in the same way, was protected in her virginity, arrested in her daughter state for years, by the circle of the fire of all-father Wotan. She slept in timelessness until the coming of Siegfried.
  Little Briar-rose (Sleeping Beauty) was put to sleep by a jeal ous hag (an unconscious evil-mother image). And not only the child, her entire world went off to sleep; but at last, "after long, long years," there came a prince to wake her. "The king and queen (the conscious good-parent images), who had just come home and were entering the hall, began to fall asleep, and with them the whole estate. All the horses slept in the stalls, the dogs in the yard, the pigeons on the roof, the flies on the walls, yes, the fire that flickered on the hearth grew still and slumbered, and the roast ceased to simmer. And the cook, who was about to pull the hair of the scullery boy because he had forgotten some thing, let him go and fell off to sleep. And the wind went down, and not a leaf stirred in the trees. Then around the Castle a hedge of thorns began to grow, which became taller every year, and finally shut off the whole estate. It grew up taller than the Castle, so that nothing more was seen, not even the weathercock on the roof."
  A Persian city once was "enstoned to stone"king and queen, soldiers, inhabitants, and allbecause its people refused the call of Allah. Lot's wife became a pillar of salt for looking back, when she had been summoned forth from her city by Jehovah.

1.03_-_The_Tale_of_the_Alchemist_Who_Sold_His_Soul, #The Castle of Crossed Destinies, #Italo Calvino, #Fiction

1.08_-_The_Depths_of_the_Divine, #Sex Ecology Spirituality, #Ken Wilber, #Philosophy
  In the Interior Castle, one of the truly great texts of subtle-level development, Teresa describes very clearly the stages of evolution of the "little butterfly," as she calls her soul, to its union with the very Divine, and she does so in terms of "seven mansions," or seven stages of growth.
  The first three stages deal with the ordinary mind or ego, "unregenerate" in the gross, manifest world of thought and sense. In the first Mansion, that of Humility, the ego is still in love with the creatures and comforts outside the Castle, and must begin a long and searching discipline in order to turn within. In the second Mansion (the Practice of Prayer), intellectual study, edification, and good company strengthen the desire and capacity to interiorize and not merely scatter and disperse the self in exterior distractions. In the Mansion of Exemplary Life, the third stage, discipline and ethics are firmly set as a foundation of all that is to follow (very similar to the Buddhist notion that sila, or moral discipline, is the foundation of dhyana, or meditation, and prajna, or spiritual insight). These are all natural (or personal) developments.
  In the fourth mansion, a supernatural (or transpersonal) grace enters the scene with the Prayer of Recollection and the Prayer of Quiet (which Teresa differentiates by their bodily effects). In both, there is a calming and slowing of gross-oriented faculties (memory, thoughts, senses) and a consequent opening to deeper, more interior spaces with correlative "graces," which Teresa calls, at this stage, "spiritual consolations" (because they are consoling to the self, not yet transcending of the self). On the other hand, it is also as if the soul itself is actually beginning to emerge at this stage: "The senses and all external things seem gradually to lose their hold, while the soul, on the other hand, regains its lost control." And this carries a glimmer of the truth to come, "namely, that God is within us."26

1.18_-_The_Eighth_Circle,_Malebolge_The_Fraudulent_and_the_Malicious._The_First_Bolgia_Seducers_and_Panders._Venedico_Caccianimico._Jason._The_Second_Bolgia_Flatterers._Allessio_Interminelli._Thais., #The Divine Comedy, #Dante Alighieri, #Christianity
  As where for the protection of the walls
  Many and many moats surround the Castles,
  The part in which they are a figure forms,
  Have chosen a mode to pass the people over;
  For all upon one side towards the Castle
  Their faces have, and go unto St. Peter's;

1.22_-_Ciampolo,_Friar_Gomita,_and_Michael_Zanche._The_Malabranche_quarrel., #The Divine Comedy, #Dante Alighieri, #Christianity
    Sometimes with trumpets and sometimes with bells,
    With kettle-drums, and signals of the Castles,
    And with our own, and with outlandish things,

1.28_-_Need_to_Define_.God.,_.Self.,_etc., #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  As "higher" gave the idea of aggression, of conquest, "within" usually implies safety. Always we get back to that stage of history when the social unit, based on the family, was little less than condition No. 1 of survival. The house, the Castle, the fortified camp, the city wall; the "gens," the clan, the tribe, the "patrie," to be outside means danger from cold, hunger and thirst, raiding parties, highway robbers, bears, wolves, and tigers. To go out was to take a risk; and, your labour and courage being assets to your kinsmen, you were also a bad man; in fact, a "bounder" or "outsider." "Debauch" is simply "to go out of doors!" St. John says: "without are dogs and sorcerers and whoremongers and adulterers and idolaters and..." so on.[52]

2.01_-_The_Tavern, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  object:2.01 - The Tavern
  class:the Castle of Crossed Destinies

2.01_-_War., #The Interior Castle or The Mansions, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
  2.: In this part of the Castle are found souls which have begun to practise prayer; they realize the importance of their not remaining in the first mansions, yet often lack determination to quit their present condition by avoiding occasions of sin, which is a very perilous state to be in.
  3.: However, it is a great grace that they should sometimes make good their escape from the vipers and poisonous creatures around them and should understand the need of avoiding them. In some way these souls suffer a great deal more than those in the first mansions, although not in such danger, as they begin to understand their peril and there are great hopes of their entering farther into the Castle. I say that they suffer a great deal more, for those in an earlier stage are like deaf-mutes and are not so distressed at being unable to speak, while the others, who can hear but cannot talk, find it much harder. At the same time, it is better not to be deaf, and a decided advantage to hear what is said to us.
  12.: It is of the utmost importance for the beginner to associate with those who lead a spiritual life,4' and not only with those in the same mansion as herself, but with others who have travelled farther into the Castle, who will aid her greatly and draw her to join them. The soul should firmly resolve never to submit to defeat, for if the devil sees it staunchly determined to lose life and comfort and all that he can offer, rather than return to the first mansion, he will the sooner leave it alone.
  19.: You may think, that if it is so very injurious to desist, it would have been better never to have begun, and to have remained outside the Castle. But, as I began by saying, and as God Himself declares: 'He that loves danger shall perish by it,'18' and the door by which A drug greatly in vogue until recent times. It was composed of all the essences supposed to contain life-giving and life-preserving qualities of animals and plants. we must enter this castle is prayer. Remember, we must get to heaven, and it would be madness to think we could do so without sometimes retiring into our souls so as to know ourselves, or thinking of our failings and of what we owe to God, or frequently imploring His mercy. Our Lord also says, 'No man cometh to the Father but by Me'19' (I am not sure whether this quotation is correct, but I think so), and, 'He that seeth Me seeth the Father also.'20

2.02_-_Meeting_With_the_Goddess, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
  escaped the touch of a grove of poison trees. The horse with the
  speed of the wind shot past the end of the Castle of Tubber Tintye;
  the prince sprang from its back through an open window, and

2.05_-_The_Tale_of_the_Vampires_Kingdom, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  object:2.05 - The Tale of the Vampires Kingdom
  class:the Castle of Crossed Destinies

2.06_-_Two_Tales_of_Seeking_and_Losing, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  object:2.06 - Two Tales of Seeking and Losing
  class:the Castle of Crossed Destinies
  Perhaps the sin of King Amfortas is a cluttered wisdom, a saddened knowledge, kept perhaps at the bottom of the vessel Parsifal sees carried in procession up the steps of the Castle, and he would like to know what it is, but still he remains silent. Parsifal's strong point is that he is so new to the world and so occupied with the fact of being in the world that it never occurs to him to ask questions about what he sees. And yet one question of his would suffice, a first question that releases the question of everything in the world that has never asked anything, and then the deposit of centuries collected at the bottom of pots in excavations is dissolved, the eras crushed among the telluric strata begin to flow again, the future recovers the past, the pollen of the abundant seasons buried for millennia in peat bogs starts drifting once more, rising on the dust of the years of drought.'.'.'.

2.07_-_I_Also_Try_to_Tell_My_Tale, #The Castle of Crossed Destinies, #Italo Calvino, #Fiction

4.01_-_Sweetness_in_Prayer, #The Interior Castle or The Mansions, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
  8.: I, myself, have sometimes been troubled by this turmoil of thoughts. I learnt by experience, but little more than four years ago, that our thoughts, or it is clearer to call it our imagination, are not the same thing as the understanding. I questioned a theologian on the subject; he told me it was the fact, which consoled me not a little. As the understanding is one of the powers of the soul, it puzzled me to see it so sluggish at times, while, as a rule, the imagination takes flight at once, so that God alone can control it by so uniting us to Himself12' that we seem, in a manner, detached from our bodies. It puzzled me to see that while to all appearance the powers of the soul were occupied with God and recollected in Him, the imagination was wandering elsewhere.
  9.: Do Thou, O Lord, take into account all that we suffer in this way through our ignorance. We err in thinking that we need only know that we must keep our thoughts fixed on Thee. We do not understand that we should consult those better instructed than ourselves, nor are we aware that there is anything for us to learn. We pass through terrible trials, on account of not understanding our own nature and take what is not merely harmless, but good, for a grave fault. This causes the sufferings felt by many people, particularly by the unlearned, who practise prayer. They complain of interior trials, become melancholy, lose their health, and even give up prayer altogether for want of recognizing that we have within ourselves as it were, an interior world. We cannot stop the revolution of the heavens as they rush with velocity upon their course, neither can we control our imagination. When this wanders we at once imagine that all the powers of the soul follow it; we think everything is lost, and that the time spent in God's presence is wasted. Meanwhile, the soul is perhaps entirely united to Him in the innermost mansions, while the imagination is in the precincts of the Castle, struggling with a thousand wild and venomous creatures and gaining merit by its warfare. Therefore we need not let ourselves be disturbed, nor give up prayer, as the devil is striving to persuade us. As a rule, all our anxieties and troubles come from misunderstanding our own nature.
  10.: Whilst writing this I am thinking of the loud noise in my head which I mentioned in the Introduction, and which has made it almost impossible to obey the command given me to write this. It sounds as if there were a number of rushing waterfalls within my brain, while in other parts, drowned by the sound of the waters, are the voices of birds singing and whistling. This tumult is not in my ears, but in the upper part of my head, where, they say, is placed the superior part of the soul. I have long thought that this must be so because the flight of the spirit seems to take place from this part with great velocity.13' Please God I may recollect to explain the cause when writing of the latter mansions, this not being the proper place for it. It may be that God has sent this suffering in my head to help me to understand the matter, for all this tumult in my brain does not interfere with my prayer, nor with my speaking to you, but the great calm and love and desires in my soul remain undisturbed and my mind is clear.

4.03_-_Prayer_of_Quiet, #The Interior Castle or The Mansions, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
  1.: The Prayer of recollection compared to the inhabitants of the Castle. 2. The Shepherd recalls His flock into the Castle. 3. This recollection supernatural. 4. It prepares us for higher favours. 5. The mind must act until God calls it to recollection by love. 6. The soul should here abandon itself into God's hands. 7. The prayer of recollection, and distractions in Prayer. 8. Liberty of spirit gained by consolations. 9. The soul must be watchful. 10. The devil specially tempts such souls. 11. False trances and raptures. 12. How to treat those deluded in this way. 13. Risks of delusion in this mansion.
  1.: THE effects of divine consolations are very numerous: before describing them, I will speak of another kind of prayer which usually precedes them. I need not say much on this subject, having written about it elsewhere.26' This is a kind of recollection which, I believe, is supernatural. There is no occasion to retire nor to shut the eyes, nor does it depend on anything exterior; involuntarily the eyes suddenly close and solitude is found. Without any labour of one's own, the temple of which I spoke is reared for the soul in which to pray: the senses and exterior surroundings appear to lose their hold, while the spirit gradually regains its lost sovereignty. Some say the soul enters into itself; others, that it rises above itself.27' I can say nothing about these terms, but had better speak of the subject as I understand it. You will probably grasp my meaning, although, perhaps, I may be the only person who understands it. Let us imagine that the senses and powers of the soul (which I compared in my allegory to the inhabitants of the Castle) have fled and joined the enemy outside. After long days and years of absence, perceiving how great has been their loss, they return to the neighbourhood of the Castle, but cannot manage to re-enter it, for their evil habits are hard to break off; still, they are no longer traitors, and they wander about outside. This is fully borne out by the present chapter. In the corresponding part of her Life she practically confounded the prayer of recollection with the prayer of quiet (the second state of the soul). Likewise, in the Way of Perfection, ch. xxviii., she speaks of but one kind of prayer of recollection and then passes on to the prayer of quiet. Here, however, she mentions a second form of the prayer of recollection. The former is not supernatural, in the sense that with special grace from above it can be acquired; the second is altogether supernatural and more like gratuitous grace (ibid. no. 80 and 81). On the meaning of 'Solitude,' 'Silence,' etc., The edition of Burgos (vol. iv, P. 59) refers appropriately to the following passage in the Tercer Abecedario by the Franciscan friar Francisco de Osuna, a work which exercised a profound influence on St. Teresa: 'Entering within oneself; and rising above oneself, are the two principal points in this exercise, those which, above all others, one ought to strive after, and which give the highest satisfaction to the soul.
  2.: The King, Who holds His court within it, sees their good will, and out of His great mercy desires them to return to Him. Like a good Shepherd, He plays so sweetly on His pipe, that although scarcely hearing it they recognize His call and no longer wander, but return, like lost sheep, to the mansions. So strong is this Pastor's power over His flock, that they abandon the worldly cares which misled them and re-enter the Castle.
  3.: I think I never put this matter so clearly before. To seek God within ourselves avails us far more than to look for Him amongst creatures; Saint Augustine tells us how he found the Almighty within his own soul, after having long sought for Him elsewhere.28' This recollection helps us greatly when God bestows it upon us. But do not fancy you can gain it by thinking of God dwelling within you, or by imagining Him as present in your soul: this is a good practice and an excellent kind of meditation, for it is founded on the fact that God resides within us;29' it is not, however, the prayer of recollection, for by the divine assistance less labour in entering within oneself than in rising above oneself and therefore it appears to me that when the soul is ready and fit for either, you ought to do the former, because the other will follow without any effort, and will be all the more pure and spiritual; however, follow what course your soul prefers as this will bring you more grace and benefit,' (Tr. ix, ch, viii). Some editors of the Interior Castle think that St. Teresa refers to the following passage taken from the Confessions of St. Augustine: 'Too late have I loved Thee, O Beauty, ever ancient yet ever new! too late have I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within me and I abroad, and there I searched for Thee, and, deformed as I was, I pursued the beauties that Thou hast made. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee. Those things kept me far from Thee, which, unless they were in Thee, could have had no being' (St. Augustine's Confessions, bk. x, ch. xxvii.). The Confessions of St. Augustine were first translated into Spanish by Sebastian Toscano, a Portuguese Augustinian. This edition, which was published at Salamanca in 1554, was the one used by St. Teresa. St. Teresa quotes a passage which occurs in a pious book entitled Soliloquia, and erroneously attributed to St. Augustine: 'I have gone about the streets and the broad ways of the city of this world seeking Thee, but have not found Thee for I was wrong in seeking without for what was within.' (ch. xxxi.) This treatise which is also quoted by St. John of the Cross, Spiritual Canticle, stanza i. 7, Ascent of Mount Carmel, bk. i. ch. v. 1, appeared in a Spanish translation at Valladolid in 1515, at Medina del Campo in 1553, and at Toledo in 1565. every one can practise it, but what I mean is quite a different thing. Sometimes, before they have begun to think of God, the powers of the soul find themselves within the Castle. I know not by what means they entered, nor how they heard the Shepherd's pipe; the ears perceived no sound but the soul is keenly conscious of a delicious sense of recollection experienced by those who enjoy this favour, which I cannot describe more clearly.
  4.: I think I read somewhere30 that the soul is then like a tortoise or sea-urchin, which retreats into itself. Those who said this no doubt understood what they were talking about; but these creatures can withdraw into themselves at will, while here it is not in our power to retire into ourselves, unless God gives us the grace. In my opinion, His Majesty only bestows this favour on those who have renounced the world, in desire at least, if their state of life does not permit their doing so in fact. He thus specially calls them to devote themselves to spiritual things; if they allow Him power to at freely He will bestow still greater graces on those whom He thus begins calling to a higher life. Those who enjoy this recollection should thank God fervently: it is of the highest importance for them to realize the value of this favour, gratitude for which would prepare them to receive still more signal graces. Some books advise that as a preparation for hearing what our Lord may say to us we should keep our minds at rest, waiting to see what He will work in our souls.31' But unless His Majesty has begun to suspend our faculties, I cannot understand how we are to stop thinking, without doing ourselves more harm than good. This point has been much debated by those learned in spiritual matters; I confess my want of humility in having been unable to yield to their opinion.32

  and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote,
  calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the Castle, who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this
  fashion, a villain and a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to
  these low people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told him, he
  said, there was no chapel in the Castle, nor was it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood
  the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on
  and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to
  be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the Castle, except such as out of respect he
  might spare at his bidding.

  from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by
  sound of trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the Castle. But seeing that they were slow about it,
  and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay
  damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their
  ease at the Castle gate.
  At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs
  figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the baggages who were about it
  for ladies of high degree belonging to the Castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
  Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of dame, As served was he, Don Quixote hight, When
  they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies,
  and the landlord the castellan of the Castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise and sally had been to
  some purpose. But still it distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he

Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   ch.1 v.1" which does not contain any part of this versicle, but which
   does mention the Castle at Shusah, cited in the versicle to the right.
   Possibly the whole thing is a continuation of a paraphrase of Daniel 8,

Maps_of_Meaning_text, #Maps of Meaning, #Jordan Peterson, #Psychology
  There once was a king who was so ill that it was thought impossible his life could be saved. He had
  three sons, and they were all in great distress on his account, and they went into the Castle gardens and
  wept at the thought that he must die. An old man came up to them and asked the cause of their grief.
  castle.349 But you will never get in unless I give you an iron rod and two loaves of bread. With the rod
  strike three times on the iron gate of the Castle and it will spring open. Inside you will find two lions
  with wide-open jaws, but if you throw a loaf to each they will be quiet. Then you must make haste to
  fetch the Water of Life before it strikes twelve, or the gates of the Castle will close, and you will be shut
  elder brothers, will inevitably encounter trouble). The story continues:
  The Prince thanked him, took the rod and the loaves, and set off. When he reached the Castle all was
  just as the dwarf had said. At the third knock the gates flew open, and when he had pacified the lions
  with their loaves, he walked into the Castle. In the great hall he found several enchanted princes, and he
  took the rings from their fingers. He also took a sword and a loaf which were lying by them.
  told him where to find the fountain with the enchanted water, but she said he must make haste to get out
  of the Castle before the clock struck twelve.
  Then he went on and came to a room where there was a beautiful bed freshly made, and as he was
  keep his fruitful daughter firmly under his control. He is the authoritarian who rules the land ravaged by
  drought; is ruler of the Castle in which everything has been brought to a standstill.

The_Act_of_Creation_text, #The Act of Creation, #Arthur Koestler, #Psychology
  as said before, a series of steps; and the escape offered by transporting
  the spectator from his bed-sitter in Bays water to the Castle of Elsinore
  is merely the bottom step of the ladder. But, nevertheless, it should not

the_Castle, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  object:the Castle
   In the Castle of the lotus twixt the brows
  Whence it shoots the arrows of its sight and will ~ Sri Aurobindo,
  object:2.08 - Three Tales of Madness and Destruction
  class:the Castle of Crossed Destinies
  In fact, the three who now started quarreling did so with solemn gestures as if declaiming, and while all three pointed to the same card, with their free hand and with evocative grimaces they exerted themselves to convey that those figures were to be interpreted this way and not that. Now in the card whose name varies according to custom and language-The Tower, The House of God, The House of the Devil-a young man carrying a sword, you would say for the purpose of scratching his flowing blond hair (now white), recognizes the platform before Elsinore castle when the night's blackness is rent by an apparition which freezes the sentinels in fear: the majestic march of a ghost whose grizzled beard and shining helmet and breastplate cause him to resemble both the tarots' Emperor and the late king of Denmark, who has returned to demand Justice. In such questionable shape, the cards lend themselves to the young man's silent interrogation: "Why the sepulchre hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws that thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, revisit'st thus the glimpses of The Moon?"
  He is interrupted by a lady who, with distraught eye, insists she recognizes in that same Tower the Castle of Dunsinane when the vengeance darkly prophesied by the witches will be unleashed: Birnam Wood will move, climbing the slopes of the hill, hosts and hosts of trees will advance, their roots torn from the earth, their boughs outstretched as in the Ten of Clubs, attacking the fortress, and the usurper will learn that Macduff, born through a sword's slash, is the one who, with a slash of the Sword, will cut off his head. And thus the sinister juxtaposition of cards finds a meaning: Popess, or prophesying sorceress; Moon, or night in which thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd, and the hedgepig whin'd, and newt, frog, and adders allow themselves to be caught for the broth; Wheel, or stirring of the bubbling cauldron where witches' mummy is dissolved with gall of goat, wool of bat, finger of birth-strangled babe, poisoned entrails, tails of shitting monkeys, just as the most senseless signs the witches mix in their brew sooner or later find a meaning that confirms them and reduces you, you and your logic, to a gruel.
  Even our less contemplative fellow guest, otherwise known as the Queen of Swords or Lady Macbeth, at the sight of The Hermit's card seems distraught: perhaps she sees there another ghostly apparition, the hooded shade of the butchered Banquo, advancing with difficulty along the corridors of the Castle, to sit down uninvited at the place of honor at the banquet, shaking his gory locks into the soup. Or else she recognizes her husband in person, Macbeth, who has murdered sleep: by the lantern's glow in the night he visits the guests' rooms, hesitating like a mosquito who dislikes staining the pillowcases. My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white!, his wife taunts and drives him, but this does not mean she is so much worse than he: they have shared the roles like a devoted couple, marriage is the encounter of two egoisms that grind each other reciprocally and from which spread the cracks in the foundations of civilized society, the pillars of public welfare stand on the viper's eggshells of private barbarity.

The_Golden_Bough, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  However, a prince made up to her one day as she was walking alone
  and disconsolate in the Castle garden, and cheered by the prospect
  of escaping with him she went to the warlock and coaxed him with

The_Pilgrims_Progress, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  {289} HOPE. My brother, said he, rememberest thou not how valiant thou hast been heretofore? Apollyon could not crush thee, nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. What hardship, terror, and amazement hast thou already gone through! And art thou now nothing but fear! Thou seest that I am in the dungeon with thee, a far weaker man by nature than thou art; also, this Giant has wounded me as well as thee, and hath also cut off the bread and water from my mouth; and with thee I mourn without the light. But let us exercise a little more patience; remember how thou playedst the man at Vanity Fair, and wast neither afraid of the chain, nor cage, nor yet of bloody death. Wherefore let us (at least to avoid the shame, that becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with patience as well as we can.
  {290} Now, night being come again, and the Giant and his wife being in bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel. To which he replied, They are sturdy rogues, they choose rather to bear all hardship, than to make away themselves. Then said she, Take them into the Castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done their fellows before them.
  {291} So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them again, and takes them into the Castle-yard, and shows them, as his wife had bidden him. These, said he, were pilgrims as you are, once, and they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces, and so, within ten days, I will do you. Go, get you down to your den again; and with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, as before. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband, the Giant, were got to bed, they began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and withal the old Giant wondered, that he could neither by his blows nor his counsel bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, that they live in hope that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape. And sayest thou so, my dear? said the Giant; I will, therefore, search them in the morning.
  {292} Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.
  A key in Christian's bosom, called Promise, opens any lock in Doubting Castle
  Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the Dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned the Key) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outward door that leads into the Castle-yard, and with his Key opened that door also. After he went to the iron Gate, for that must be opened too, but that Lock went damnable hard, yet the Key did open it. Then they thrust open the Gate to make their escape with speed; but that Gate as it opened made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who hastily rising to pursue his Prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his Fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they went on, and came to the King's High-way again, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction
  {294} Now, when they were over the stile, they began to contrive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the side thereof this sentence--"Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims." Many, therefore, that followed after read what was written, and escaped the danger. This done, they sang as follows:--

Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_text, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
  amorous glances, there too is the will to be master.
  Along stealthy paths the weaker steals into the Castle
  and into the very heart of the more powerful-and
  "Your life itself interprets this dream for us, 0 Zarathustra. Are you not yourself the wind with the shrill
  whistling that tears open the gates of the Castles of
  death? Are you not yourself the coffin full of colorful

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