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It’s a rare man who is taken for what he truly is.
Peter S. Beagle
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Peter S. Beagle
Age: 85
Born: 1939
Born: April 20
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Manhattan borough
New York City
Peter Soyer Beagle
Truly
Taken
Men
Unicorn
Rare
More quotes by Peter S. Beagle
But I still feel I waste a lot of time leaning on my elbow and thinking to myself, 'alright sucker, now what?'
Peter S. Beagle
I fear it, for her sake. It would mean that she too is a wanderer now, and that is a fate for human beings, not for unicorns. But I hope, of course I hope.
Peter S. Beagle
...but the enchantment of error that you put on me I must wear forever in your eyes.
Peter S. Beagle
Ah, love may be strong, but a habit is stronger, And I knew when I loved by the way I behaved.
Peter S. Beagle
Envy nobody. It is the true secret of happiness, or at least the only one I know. (By Moonlight)
Peter S. Beagle
I always say perseverance is nine-tenths of any art — not that it's much help to be nine-tenths an artist, of course.
Peter S. Beagle
..no meal is good enough to justify all the money and effort wasted in preparing it. It is an illusion and an expense. Live as I do, undeceived.
Peter S. Beagle
Ah. My story. Are you certain you wish to hear it? It is long, unlikely, and remarkably unedifying -- shameful, even, to come from a minister's lips. Blasphemous, too, properly regarded.
Peter S. Beagle
You were the one who taught me, he said. I never looked at you without seeing the sweetness of the way the world goes together, or without sorrow for its spoiling. I became a hero to serve you, and all that is like you.
Peter S. Beagle
You have to be very deep to be dead, he thought, and I'm not. He began to have some concept of forever, and his mind shivered as his body had when he had wakened in the cold nights and thrust his hands between his thighs to keep warm. It will be a long night, he thought.
Peter S. Beagle
There are no happy endings, because nothing ends.
Peter S. Beagle
What happened instead was that the tree fell in love with him and began to murmur fondly of the joy to be found in the eternal embrace of a red oak. Always, always, it sighed, faithful beyond any man's deserving. I will keep the color of your eyes when no other in the world remembers your name. There is no immortality but a tree's love.
Peter S. Beagle
Her voice left a flavor of honey and gunpowder on the air.
Peter S. Beagle
Sing to me, she said. That would be valiant, to raise your voice in this dark, lonely place, and it will be useful as well. Sing to me, sing loudly-drown out my dreams, keep me from remembering whatever wants me to remember it. Sing to me, my lord prince, if it please you. It may not seem a hero's task, but I would be glad of it.
Peter S. Beagle
The magician was studying her face with his green eyes. Your face is wet, he said worriedly. I hope that's spray. If you've become human enough to cry, then no magic in the world — oh, it must be spray. Come with me. It had better be spray.
Peter S. Beagle
How's the Angel of Death supposed to do his job with clipped wings?
Peter S. Beagle
The unicorn halted in her slow, desperate round of the cage, realizing for the first time that the magician understood her speech. He smiled, and she saw that his face was frighteningly young for a grown man-untraveled by time, unvisited by grief or wisdom. I know you, he said.
Peter S. Beagle
What use is magic if it can't save a unicorn?
Peter S. Beagle
Sparrows and cats will live in my shoe, Sooner than I will live with you. Fish will come walking out of the sea, Sooner than you will come back to me.
Peter S. Beagle
No, he repeated, and this time the word tolled in another voice, a king's voice... whose grief was not for what he did not have, but for what he could not give.
Peter S. Beagle