Antoine Richis: Forgive me... my son.
Jessie: That was definitely Woody's finest hour!
Buttercup: My name's Buttercup. You've met Baron von Shush.
Slinky Dog: I thought we were going to the attic?
Ken: No one appreciates clothes here, Barbie! No one.
Love stories are probably all I've ever been able to write or want to write.
The story of the human race is the story of men and women selling themselves short.
It's not an easy thing to tell a true story.
What I like in comedies are really two things: stories that are character-driven and stories that are rooted in authenticity.
History is full of blank spaces, but good stories, invariably, are not.
The short story, on the other hand, is the perfect American form.
As far as I can figure, the way that it works is this: everyone has something that happened to them. The thing that we each carry. And you can see it in people, if you look. See it in the way someone walks, in the way someone takes a compliment, some...
Supposing an emperor was persuaded to wear a new suit of clothes whose material was so fine that, to the common eye, the clothes weren't there. And suppose a little boy pointed out this fact in a loud, clear voice... Then you have The Story of the Em...
The story of Andrew Ewing is partly one of rags to riches – but there is more to it than that, since his business success was combined with a generosity of spirit that led him to give away a fortune in pursuit of his ultimate ambition to die a poor...
A necessary part of our intelligence is on the line as the oral tradition becomes less and less important. There was a time throughout our land when it was common for stories to be told and retold, a most valuable exercise, for the story retold is th...
This is the story of how Dad lived with his lung cancer. But it is much more. Through his illness and the miracles we experienced, I came to see that Dad's was not just a journey. It was a journey home. Home to God.
I used to believe my father about everything but then I had children myself & now I see how much stuff you make up just to keep yourself from going crazy.
Stories you read when you're the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you'll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in yo...
No,” said Bran. “I haven’t. And if I have it doesn’t matter. Sometimes Old Nan would tell the same story she’d told before, but we never minded, if it was a good story. Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit th...
Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before...
Tonight I can smell the season the way it's usually only possible to at the very first moments of its return, before you're used to it, when you've forgotten its smell, then there it is back in the air and the flow of things shifting and resettling a...
