A Tale For The Time Being Quotes

She'd been betwitched. She'd pricked her finger and had fallen into a deep, comalike sleep. ~ Ruth Ozeki

Truth is like the moon in the sky. Words are like a finger. A finger can point to the moon's location, but it is not the moon. To see the moon, you must look past the finger. To look for the truth in books, the Sixth Patriarch was saying, is like mistaking the finger for the moon. The moon and the finger are not the same thing.
"Not same," old Jiko would have said. "Not different, either. ~ Ruth Ozeki

Lady Thornton!" the prosecutor rapped out, and he began firing questions at her so rapidly that she could scarcely keep track of them. "Tell us the truth, Lady Thornton. Did that man"-his finger pointed accusingly to where Ian was sitting, out of Elizabeth's vision-"fid you and bribe you to come back here and tell us this absurd tale? Or did he find you and threaten your life if you didn't come here today? Isn't it true that you have no idea where your brother is? Isn't it true that by your own admission a few moments ago you fled in terror for your life from this cruel man? Isn't it true that you are afraid of further cruelty from him-"
"No!" Elizabeth cried. Her gaze raced over the male faces around and above her, and she could see not one that looked anything but either dubious or contemptuous of the truths she had told.
"No further questions!"
"Wait!" In that infinitesimal moment of time Elizabeth realized that if she couldn't convince them she was telling the truth, she might be able to convince them she was too stupid to make up such a lie. "Yes, my lord," her voice rang out. "I cannot deny it-about his cruelty, I mean."
Sutherland swung around, his eyes lighting up, and renewed excitement throbbed in the great chamber. "You admit this is a cruel man?"
"Yes, I do," Elizabeth emphatically declared.
"My dear, poor woman, could you tell us-all of us-some examples of his cruelty?"
"Yes, and when I do, I know you will all understand how tru ~ Judith McNaught

She told everything as quickly as she could, stringing sentences together the way she had when she was a little girl. By the end of the tale,she found herself defending her mother,angry at the world that made it necessary for her to explain.Impulsively, she grabbed a curry comb and began to brush Red Star's coat vigorously.She brushed for a long time,and tears began to blur her vision.She tried to resign herself to what seemed to be happening.Then a hand covered hers and squeezed affectionately. Mac took the curry comb away,and bent to kiss the back of her hand.
"So,Miss King,will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the social next Friday evening at the Congregational Church?"
Miss King embarrassed herself by saying yes! so loudly that the dozing horse in the stall next to Red Star jumped and kicked the side of his stall in fright.The two young people laughed, and MacKenzie lifted LisBeth into the air and swung her around in his arms.
Sick with apprehension,Jesse had been unable to remain alone for long.She returned to the kitchen to help Augustus with meal preparations, praying earnestly for LisBeth and MacKenzie while she worked.When the two young people burst through the kitchen door together,their happy smiles told the older women all they needed to know.
LisBeth was sobered when she saw her Mother. "Mother,I..."
Jesse held up a hand to stop her. "It's all right,LisBeth. I'm glad everything turned out.I've been praying for you both."
"M ~ Stephanie Grace Whitson

Once upon a time fairy tales were told to audiences of young and old alike. It is only in the last century that such tales were deemed fit only for small children, stripped of much of their original complexity, sensuality, and power to frighten and delight. ~ Terri Windling

I turned on my heel and left the building. With only £4.76 in the bank, and my subscription to 'Men Only' due, things were looking bleak. Seeing that Keith Moore had apparently purloined Sting's money, though at this time, he had not been yet convicted of the offence, it seemed to me that he was a better bet for a loan than Sting was. ~ James Berryman

Just sit right back
And you'll hear a tale
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started from this tropic port,
Aboard this tiny ship.
The mate was a mighty sailin' lad,
The Skipper brave and sure,
Five passengers set sail that day,
For a three hour tour,
A three hour tour.


The weather started getting rough,
The tiny ship was tossed.
If not for the courage of the fearless crew
The Minnow would be lost.
The Minnow would be lost.

The ship set ground on the shore
Of this uncharted desert isle
With Gilligan,
The Skipper too.
The millionaire
And his wife,
The movie star,
The professor and Mary Ann,
Here on Gilligan's Isle.



So this is the tale of our castaways,
They're here for a long long time.
They'll have to make the best of things,
It's an uphill climb.

The first mate and his Skipper too
Will do their very best,
To make the others comf'terble
In their tropic island nest.

No phone, no lights, no motor car,
Not a single luxury
Like Robinson Crusoe
It's primitive as can be.

So join us here each week my friends,
You're sure to get a smile,
From seven stranded castaways
Here on Gilligan's Isle! ~ Sherwood Schwartz

You see, King, we have a legend - I used to believe that it was all fairy-tale rubbish and empty smoke. It is a legend about how such things as war and death and despair were common in our country at one time. These terrible words, which we have long since stopped using in our language, can be read in collections of our old tales, and they sound awful to us and even a little ridiculous. Today I've learned that these tales are all true ... But now tell me, don't you have in your soul a sort of intimation that you're not doing the right thing? Don't you have a yearning for bright, serene gods, for sensible and cheerful leaders and mentors? Don't you ever dream in your sleep about another, more beautiful life where nobody is envious of others, where reason and order prevails, where people treat other people only with cheerfulness and considerations? ~ Hermann Hesse

When the girl didn't move, Gavin summoned her near with his fingers. His heart thrummed as she obeyed, stepping up close to him. Her young stature was much shorter than his tall, wiry form. Gavin regarded her prettiness - pale cheeks, pink lips, inquisitive eyes. Fascinated by her, he longed to know her name.

"Who are you?" he asked. He heard the girl utter the same question at the same time.

Cocking his head, he claimed, "I asked you first."

"No you didn't," she protested, shaking her red-hooded head, "I asked you at the same time you asked me."

Gavin grinned at her insistence. It was hard for him not to chuckle. "Well, then, I suppose we'll have to go with 'girls first'." His grin widened into a white smile.

The girl gestured to herself. "I'm Little Red Riding Hood."

He recognized the name of a fairy tale character, and groaned under his breath at not having discovered this dreamer's real name.

"Actually," she confessed almost immediately, "I'm not really Red Riding Hood. My name is Annabelle, but I'm pretending to be her because……well……because this is my dream and that's what I wish to dream about."

Oh glorious day! He'd learned her name! Annabelle! Annabelle! What a perfectly sweet sound was this utterance of…..Annabelle. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

The tale of the Monkey Girl gave me wat I needed most at a critical time in my life: the image of the creative and complex woman, unique to herself but willing to share those considerable gifts with a man capable of intuiting the wealth of her worth hidden beneath the skin. But more than that, the Monkey Girl also suggested that I need not be afraid of the fragile happily-ever-after, that I had resources of my own, and that I would not have to contort myself into a restrictive social role for fear of losing that fairytale ending. ~ Midori Snyder

If this were a fairy tale, this would be the part where the fishboy appears and Diana shoots him through the heart. Because he is a tragic hero, he's our fucking Gatsby, and he lived for his fish and he has to die for his fish. He would never let my fake authority, condoning his abandonment, making up rules about what's okay just to save his life, convince him to give up his family. He would never leave.
He would know that without him, none of us will be as good. Me, without a friend; and the fish, without a brother; and the island, without a story; and Diana, without her something real, we will all be a little bit less than we were before we knew him.
So he wouldn't leave. Not until I could come with him. And I have never been less able to leave than I am now.
But this isn't a fairy tale, and he doesn't appear. We stand here for a long time.
He really left.
Because it was all that we could do. ~ Hannah Moskowitz

Tikkun Olam. There is a Jewish legend behind this notion. Sometime early in the life of the world, something happened to shatter the light of the universe into countless pieces. They lodged as sparks inside every part of the creation. The highest human calling is to look for this original light from where we sit, to point to it and gather it up and in so doing to repair the world. This can sound like an idealistic and fanciful tale. But Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, who told it to me as her Hasidic grandfather told it to her, calls it an important and empowering story for our time. It insists that each one of us, flawed and inadequate as we may feel, has exactly what's needed to help repair the part of the world that we can see and touch. ~ Krista Tippett

Some people owe everything they have to the bank accounts of their parents. I owe the state. Put simply, the state educated me, fixed my leg when it was broken, and gave me a grant that enabled me to go to university. It fixed my teeth (a bit) and found housing for my veteran father in his dotage. When my youngest brother was run over by a truck it saved his life and in particular his crushed right hand, a procedure that took half a year, and which would, on the open market - so a doctor told me at the time - have cost a million pounds. Those were the big things, but there were also plenty of little ones: my subsidized sports centre and my doctor's office, my school music lessons paid for with pennies, my university fees. My NHS glasses aged 9. My NHS baby aged 33. And my local library. To steal another writer's title: England made me. It has never been hard for me to pay my taxes because I understand it to be the repaying of a large, in fact, an almost incalculable, debt.

....The charming tale of benign state intervention described above is now relegated to the land of fairy tales: not just naïve but actually fantastic. Having one's own history so suddenly and abruptly made unreal is an experience of a whole generation of British people, who must now wander around like so many ancient mariners boring foreigners about how they went to university for free and could once find a National Health dentist on their high street. ~ Zadie Smith

A heartwarming tale of Christmas past that's chock full of all the wit and hilarity we admire in America's favorite humorist
Mark Twain. Carlo DeVito brings us back one hundred years to a magical time in Twain's family life, revealing a house that's brimming with love and laughter, as well as the profound heartbreaks of life. A Mark Twain Christmas only deepens our understanding and respect for both the man and his work. ~ Gilbert King

We all need fairy tales to forget the tragedies and difficulties of life, even for a short time! ~ Mehmet Murat Ildan

But come on - tell me the proposal story, anyway."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really. Just keep in mind that I'm a guy, which means I'm genetically predisposed to think that whatever mushy romantic tale you're about to tell me is highly cheesy."

Rylann laughed. "I'll keep it simple, then." She rested her drink on the table. "Well, you already heard how Kyle picked me up at the courthouse after my trial. He said he wanted to surprise me with a vacation because I'd been working so hard, but that we needed to drive to Champaign first to meet with his former mentor, the head of the U of I Department of Computer Sciences, to discuss some project Kyle was working on for a client." She held up a sparkly hand, nearly blinding Cade and probably half of the other Starbucks patrons. "In hindsight, yes, that sounds a little fishy, but what do I know about all this network security stuff? He had his laptop out, there was some talk about malicious payloads and Trojan horse attacks - it all sounded legitimate enough at the time."

"Remind me, while I'm acting U.S. attorney, not to assign you to any cybercrime cases."

"Anyhow. . . we get to Champaign, which as it so happens, is where Kyle and I first met ten years ago. And the limo turns onto the street where I used to live while in law school, and Kyle asks the driver to pull over because he wants to see the place for old time's sake. So we get out of the limo, and he's making thi ~ Julie James

My brave husband came back from fighting the Turks and brought me a robe of silk and a necklace of human teeth. He sat up at night by his hearth telling tales of battle. Apparently the Turks are ten times more ferocious and fearless than the Scots. 'Perhaps we should invite them here to drive the Scots back,' I suggested, and he laughed, but he didn't kiss me. That's when I learned the truth about scars. A man with a battle scar is a veteran, a hero, given an honoured place at the fire. Small boys gaze up fascinated, dreaming of winning such badges of courage. Maids caress his thighs with their buttocks as they bend over to mull his ale. Women cluck and cosset, and if in time other men grow a little weary of that tale of honour, then they call for his cup to be filled again and again until he is fuddled and dozes quietly in the warmth of the embers.

But a scarred woman is not encouraged to tell her story. Boys jeer and mothers cross themselves. Pregnant women will not come close for fear that if they look upon such a sight, the infant in their belly will be marked. You've heard of the tales of Beauty and the Beast no doubt. How a fair maid falls in love with a monster and sees the beauty of his soul beneath the hideous visage. But you've never heard the tale of the handsome man falling for the monstrous woman and finding joy in her love, because it doesn't happen, not even in fairytales. The truth is that the scarred woman's husband buys her a good thick veil and ~ Karen Maitland

Uncoupling is primarily a tale of two transitions: one that begins before the other. Most often, one person wants out while the other person wants the relationship to continue. Although both partners must go through all the same stages of the transition in order to uncouple, the transition begins and ends at different times for each. By the time the still-loving partner realizes the relationship is in serious trouble, the other person is already gone in a number of ways. The rejected partner then embarks on a transition that the other person began long before. ~ Diane Vaughan

Once upon a time there was a hazel-eyed boy with dimples. I called him Khalil. The world called him a thug.
He lived, but not nearly long enough, and for the rest of my life I'll remember how he died.
Fairy tale? No. But I'm not giving up on a better ending. ~ Angie Thomas

The relationship between the Sophotechs and the men as depicted in that tale made no sense. How could they be hostile to each other?"

Diomedes said, "Aren't men right to fear machines which can perform all tasks men can do, artistic, intellectual, technical, a thousand or a million times better than they can do? Men become redundant."

Phaethon shook his head, a look of distant distaste on his features, as if he were once again confronted with a falsehood that would not die no matter how often it was denounced. In a voice of painstaking patience, he said: "Efficiency does not harm the inefficient. Quite the opposite. That is simply not the way it works. Take me, for example. Look around: I employed partials to do the thought-box junction spotting when I built this ship. My employees were not as skilled as I was in junction spotting. It took them three hours to do the robopsychology checks and hierarchy links I could have done in one hour. But they were in no danger of competition from me. My time is too valuable. In that same hour it would have taken me to spot their thought-box junction, I can earn far more than their three-hour wages by writing supervision architecture thought flows. And it's the same with me and the Sophotechs.

"Any midlevel Sophotech could have written in one second the architecture it takes me, even with my implants, an hour to compose. But if, in that same one second of time, that Sophotech can produce something more val ~ John C. Wright

There were three voices, weaving together, telling a tale of stonemasons.

One stonemason was kind, and he created creatures who could care for the sick, the very young, and the very old.

One stonemason was strong, and she created creatures who could build homes, plow fields, and dig graves.

One stonemason was clever, and she created creatures who could study the stars, measure the mountains, and solve the mysteries of life and death and immortality.

Each one claimed that their creations added more to the world and were more important than the others, and so they fell to arguing, and then challenged one another to battle, with their stone creatures as soldiers. But when it came time to meet on the field, the creatures refused to fight.

Fighting would hurt the sick.

Fighting would destroy the homes.

Fighting would bring only death. ~ Sarah Beth Durst

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She's an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It's that kind of story. ~ Catherynne M Valente

Summer on the farm was glorious. Peter spent as much time out of doors as possible, and he had many playmates, since all the children were free from their spring and autumn duties of tending crops or going to school. Peter had become the leader of a merry band of youngsters, aged six to fourteen, who followed the Wild Boy wherever he went and seemed to understand his unintelligible noises. If they did not understand, then they pretended to.
The life of a princess has many advantages, but I envied those children for their time with Peter and for what seemed to me to be a simple, carefree existence. ~ Christopher Daniel Mechling

The night draws to an end, the dream dims in the pale silver of awakening. Kruppe ceases, weary beyond reason. Sweat drips down the length of his ratty beard, his latest affectation.
A bard sits, head bowed, and in a short time he will say thank you. But for now he must remain silent, and as for the other things he would say, they are between him and Kruppe and none other. Fisher sits, head bowed. While an Elder God weeps.
The tale is spun. Spun out.
Dance by limb, dance by word. Witness! ~ Steven Erikson

It was a fairy tale, no fooling. It was unreality becoming real. This frightened her. Because people don't care for unreality becoming real. It pricks their well-fed minds, you see, with something like a hunger pang. They prefer the logical stuffiness of expectancy. It is only at certain times that they weaken, letting imagination in. That's the time to get them. ("The Disinheritors") ~ Richard Matheson

I'd have you see the like this; I'd have you see them very well. Will you? They are clustered around Suzie's Cruisin Trike, embracing in the aftermath of their victory. I'd have you see them this way not because they have won a great battle - they know better than that, every one of them - but because now they are ka-tet for the last time. The story of their fellowship ends here, on this make-believe street and beneath this artificial sun; the rest of the tale will be short and brutal compared to all that's gone before. Because when ka-tet breaks, the end always comes quickly.
Say sorry. ~ Stephen King

One of my all-time favorite books is Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice - I know, a bit girly, but great is great. I hated the book when I was forced to read it and write a book report at fourteen. I only realized that I loved it - and a lot of literature - when I reread it for fun on a whim when I was twenty-three. The same is true for Huckleberry Finn, A Tale of Two Cities, and Brave New World. Not only was I more mature and had more perspective on life, but I had the time and motivation to appreciate it. I believe that motivation, the culture of a community, and outlets for exploration drive the appreciation of the arts, not grades and credit-unit requirements. ~ Salman Khan

The fox speaks with the hurricane and says, "I need to travel far and fast. Can you take me?" The hurricane regards the puny fox with its huge, calm eye and asks, "What can you do for me?" "Why, I will let you whisper your dreams to me." "But I must kill whatever I carry. You are a living thing and do not wish to die." "If you do not kill me, I will listen to your inmost self, and tell all the animals, that they may feel sympathy for you." "What do I care for sympathy? I am all-powerful." "Yes, but someday, your winds will die, and my kits will tell this tale even when you are gone, of the time great-great-great-grandfather fox was carried by the winds and lived and learned their secrets." "But then they will not be afraid of me, and what good am I if I do not inspire fear?" "Oh, no living thing could ever be so strong they would not fear you. I give you something more. I give you a voice throughout time that is more than a wordless bellow of rage. ~ Greg Bear

Forgive me," he said tightly. "That was uncalled for."
"It certainly was," Maria said. "She was saying nice things about you."
His gaze shot to her. "She was pointing out, yet again, how I've failed my family."
"If you don't like it," Maria countered, "why don't you stop failing them?"
"Touche, Maria," Minerva said softly.
Gritting his teeth, Oliver turned his gaze out the window, no doubt wishing he could be well away from them all. And as he retreated into himself, Minerva began to tell one story after another about Oliver as a boy.
Maria didn't want to be enchanted by them, but she couldn't help herself. She laughed at the tale of how he'd fallen into the pond in front of Halstead Hall while trying to "charm" fish into the boat the way Indians charmed snakes out of their baskets. She tried not to laugh at the one where he coaxed Gabe into sharing Gabe's piece of cake by claiming that it might have been poisoned, requiring Oliver to "taste it and make sure it was safe."
But the tale about some lad pulling five-year-old Minerva's hair, and Oliver jumping to her rescue by punching Minerva's attacker, made Maria want to cry. The Oliver who'd defended his sister still existed-she glimpsed him from time to time. So where had the other, carefree Oliver gone? His siblings didn't seem nearly as bitter over the tragedy of their parents' deaths as he. Was it simply because he'd been older? Or did something else about it plague him? ~ Sabrina Jeffries

Here's a story of a girl
Who grew up lost and lonely
Thinking love was fairy tale
And trouble was made only for me
Even in the darkness every color can be found
And every day of rain brings
Water flowing
To things growing in the ground
Grief replaced with pity
For a city barely coping
Dreams are easy to achieve
If hope is all I'm hoping to be
Any time you're hurt
There's one who has it worse around
And every drop of rain will keep you growing
Seeds you're sowing in the ground ~ Joss Whedon

Consider the following sequence of cases, which we shall call the Tale of the Slave, and imagine it is about you.

1. There is a slave completely at the mercy of his brutal master's whims. He is often cruelly beaten, called out in the middle of the night, and so on.

2. The master is kindlier and beats the slave only for stated infractions of his rules (not fulling the work quota, and so on). He gives the slave some free time.

3. The master has a group of slave, and he decides how things are to be allocated among them on nice grounds, taking into account their needs, merit, and so on.

4. The master allows the slave four days on their own and requires them to work only three days a week on his land. The rest of the time is their own.

5. The master allows his slaves to go off and work in the city (or anywhere they wish) for wages. He also retains the power to recall them to the plantation if some emergency threatens his land; and to raise or lower the three-sevenths amount required to be turned over to him. He further retains the right to restrict the slaves from participating in certain dangerous activities that threaten his financial return, for example, mountain climbing, cigarette smoking.

6. The master allows all of his 10,000 slaves, except you, to vote, and the joint decision is made by all of them. There is open discussion, and so forth, among them, and they have the power to determine to what use to put wh ~ Robert Nozick

Jesus invites us into a story that is bigger than ourselves, bigger than our culture, bigger even than our imaginations, and yet we get to tell that story with the scandalous particularity of our particular moment and place in time. We are storytelling creatures because we are fashioned in the image of a storytelling God. May we never neglect the gift of that. May we never lose our love for telling the tale. ~ Rachel Held Evans

It's customary for the field team to take a break after a confirmed memetic incursion into baseline reality - in layman's terms, we're supposed to get some time off after we stop a fairy tale from rewriting a major metropolitan area into an evil, R-rated version of Disney World. New and improved! Now with extra incest and murder! ~ Seanan McGuire

When the bald associate had mentioned a sleeping beauty, he was referring to a fairy tale that you have probably heard one thousand times. Like all fairy tales, the story of Sleeping Beauty begins with 'Once upon a time,' and continues with a foolish young princess who makes a witch very angry, and then takes a nap until her boyfriend wakes her up with a kiss and insists on getting married, at which point the story ends with the phrase 'happily ever after.' The story is usually illustrated with fancy drawings of the napping princess, who always looks very glamorous and elegant, with her hair neatly combed and a long silk gown keeping her comfortable as she snores away for years and years. ~ Lemony Snicket

While I have the floor, here's a question that's been bothering me for some time. Why do so few writers of heroic or epic fantasy ever deal with the fundamental quandary of their novels . . . that so many of them take place in cultures that are rigid, hierarchical, stratified, and in essence oppressive? What is so appealing about feudalism, that so many free citizens of an educated commonwealth like ours love reading about and picturing life under hereditary lords?

Why should the deposed prince or princess in every clichéd tale be chosen to lead the quest against the Dark Lord? Why not elect a new leader by merit, instead of clinging to the inbred scions of a failed royal line? Why not ask the pompous, patronizing, "good" wizard for something useful, such as flush toilets, movable type, or electricity for every home in the kingdom? Given half a chance, the sons and daughters of peasants would rather not grow up to be servants. It seems bizarre for modern folk to pine for a way of life our ancestors rightfully fought desperately to escape. ~ David Brin

His reality was turned into dust the day it collided with her universe. For the first time, he wanted to get lost forever in a place that felt like a fairy tale where only she and he existed. And he never wanted to find his way back to reality anymore. ~ Akshay Vasu

The tale begins well before my time. It's common knowledge, among the locals, that the woods stretching between Swinford and Corbinsdale are cursed." "Cursed," Brooke scoffed. "Ignorance and superstition are the true curses. Their remedy is education. Don't you sponsor a school on this estate, Denny?" "It's a story," Portia said. "Even schoolchildren know the difference. And they could teach you something about imagination. Your cynicism is not only tiresome, but pitiable." "You pity me? How amusing." "Pity won't get you on my list." "Really?" Brooke smirked. "It seems to have worked for Lord Merritt." Enough ~ Tessa Dare

Once upon a time there was war, and starvation, and death. Once upon a time we would kill our brothers and sisters, fearing for our own lives. Once upon a time the characters turned from us, and we wept. Now we do not war, nor do we fear, nor do we weep. We Redact. ~ F.D. Lee

It is an adventure called Bertie's Botheration. A haunting, gothic tale of ... " She stopped for the dowager was frantically gesturing to her heart and grinning.
"You have read it! It is my favourite book. Ah, I see you love it too. Yes ... yes, I understand you could never tell anyone that it is your favourite. Not lofty enough. I keep a few acceptable names in my head every time someone asks me what my favourite book is, but one does not really confess what book they actually really like and have read over and over ... ~ Anya Wylde

Heat stirred in Cassius's gut. His pulse beat hard and heavy like a fist punching against his skin. He knew he should look away but could not. He struggled to make sense of this moment, each moment from the very first when the prince asked Cas to meet him. It was as if he'd stepped inside a fairy tale, a story he would make up for Emily and Elizabeth, a make-believe land where he would have something in common with someone like Prince Merrick. Where someone like the prince would look upon him as an equal. That's what this was, he realized. In this piece of time, they were not prince and servant. They were two men who felt tied to their lives. At any moment, he expected to be roused by Valor and for all this to have been a dream, but Valor did not come, and Cassius didn't awaken ~ Riley Hart

In the past, love for me has always meant forever, and sure, you still nurse some of those fantasies, but I don't try to force it anymore. I hung on to my fairy-tale ideals for a long time. But where I am now, what I've been through, there are no rules. There are lots of ways it can turn out instead of just one. There are so many different kinds of happiness, not just the one you learned about when you were 5 years old. ~ Jennifer Lopez