N.D. Wilson Quotes & Sayings

You can't buy history new. — N.D. Wilson

Don't you touch my sister
or i will seriously try to kill you.
-Cyrus Smith — N.D. Wilson

No place is ever the same tomorrow. — N.D. Wilson

Woman and children behind the lines!' he yelled, and all the girls jumped. Henry froze with his mouth open. 'Bang the drum slowly and ask not for whom the bell's ringing, for the answer's unfriendly!' He threw a fist in the air. 'Two years have my black ships sat before Troy, and today its gate shall open before the strength of my arm.' Dotty was laughing from the kitchen. Frank looked at his nephew. 'Henry, we play baseball tomorrow. Today we sack cities. Dots! Fetch me my tools! Down with the French! Once more into the breach, and fill the wall with our coward dead! Half a league! Half a league! Hey, batter, batter!'
Frank brought his fist down onto the table, spilling Anastasia's milk, and then he struck a pose with both arms above his head and his chin on his chest. The girls cheered and applauded. Aunt Dotty stepped back into the dining room carrying a red metal toolbox. — N.D. Wilson

Henry's in the cupbord,' Richard said. 'I opted to sit this one out. Would it be incovenient for me to stay? — N.D. Wilson

There is a bus station in Henry, but it isn't on Main Street. It's one block north - the town fathers hadn't wanted all the additional traffic. The station lost one-third of its roof to a tornado fifteen years ago. In the same summer, a bottle rocket brought the gift of fire to its restrooms. The damage has never been repaired, but the town council makes sure that the building is painted fresh every other year, and always the color of a swimming pool. There is never graffiti. Vandals would have to drive more than twenty miles to buy the spray paint.

Every once in a long while, a bus creeps into town and eases to a stop beside the mostly roofed, bright aqua station with the charred bathrooms. Henry is always glad to see a bus. Such treats are rare. — N.D. Wilson

Spring is worth the wait. Life is worth the death. — N.D. Wilson

Do your best. Live. Create. Fail. — N.D. Wilson

And I don't have to hold on with anything more than my toes — N.D. Wilson

Live Like a Narnian: Christian Discipleship in C.S. Lewis's Chronicles — N.D. Wilson

Hold your tongue if you'd like to keep it. - Jaques — N.D. Wilson

Going where no man has gone before is more difficult than it sounds. Our cousins and ancestors were no less curious than we are, and were perhaps bolder. This world is their tomb.
You should look under the bed. — N.D. Wilson

The world is rated R, and no one is checking IDs. Do not try to make it G by imagining the shadows away. Do not try to hide your children from the world forever, but do not try to pretend there is no danger. Train them. Give them sharp eyes and bellies full of laughter. Make them dangerous. Make them yeast, and when they've grown, they will pollute the shadows. — N.D. Wilson

I listened to you tell me, tell everyone, and all the world, "Praise the Lord." You were broken, but not by bullets and bombs. You were broken by grace. — N.D. Wilson

Infinite goes all the way up and all the way down; and at every level, with equal attention, He creates with the full dose of His personality. — N.D. Wilson

If someone else was delivering your lines, would you like them? If someone else was wearing your attitude, would you be impressed? — N.D. Wilson

Nails are forged for pounding. Man is born to trouble. Man is born for trouble. Man is born to battle trouble. Man is born for the fight, to be forged and molded - under torch and hammer and chisel - into a sharper, finer, stronger image of God. — N.D. Wilson

Cheese, Leon! Go get the cheese! — N.D. Wilson

His sons, George and Silas, were slicing onions and peppers and meat over the pan, while their father snow-plowed it all around with a long spatula. Cyrus — N.D. Wilson

Understand this: we are both tiny and massive. We are nothing more than molded clay given breath, but we are nothing less than divine self-portraits, huffing and puffing along the mountain ranges of epic narrative arcs prepared for us by the Infinite Word Himself. — N.D. Wilson

What is the world? What is it for?
It is an art. It is the best of all possible art, a finite picture of the infinite. Assess it like prose, like poetry, like architecture, sculpture, painting, dance, delta blues, opera, tragedy, comedy, romance, epic. Assess it like you would a Faberge egg, like a gunfight, like a musical, like a snowflake, like a death, a birth, a triumph, a love story, a tornado, a smile, a heartbreak, a sweater, a hunger pain, a desire, a fufillment, a desert, a waterfall, a song, a race, a frog, a play, a song, a marriage, a consummation, a thirst quenched.
Assess it like that. And when you're done, find an ant and have him assess the cathedrals of Europe. — N.D. Wilson

If your boy's alive, the last thing you should want to do is double his trouble. Don't try to run to him when he's in something thick unless you can bring him the answer ... If you raised your boy how you should've, then you know he's fighting with what he's got. If he dies, then you'll know he died trying, and that's as much as you can ask ... Ted's gone. But he left you a son made out of the same stuff he was, and don't you underestimate him. If you know Tom, then you'll have some faith in the boy. The odds might be long, but I'll bet on him. — N.D. Wilson

Stories are like catechisms, but they're catechisms for your impulses, they're catechisms with flesh on. — N.D. Wilson

To love is to be selfless. To be selfless is to be fearless. To be fearless is to strip enemies of their greatest weapon. Even if they break our bodies and drain our blood, we are unvanquished. Our goal was never to live; our goal is to love. It is the goal of all noble men and women. Give all that can be given. Give even your live itself. — N.D. Wilson

Kansas is not easily impressed. It has seen houses fly and cattle soar. When funnel clouds walk through the wheat, big hail falls behind. As the biggest stones melt, turtles and mice and fish and even men can be seen frozen inside. And Kansas is not surprised.
Henry York had seen things in Kansas, things he didn't think belonged in this world. Things that didn't. Kansas hadn't flinched. — N.D. Wilson

The world is R-rated, and no one's checking IDs — N.D. Wilson

He exists on two planes. He sees the story as He tells it, while He weaves it, shapes it, and sings it. And He stepped inside it. The shadows exist in the painting, the dark corners of grief and trial and wickedness all exist so that He might step inside them, so we could see how low He can stoop. In this story, the Author became flesh and wandered the stage with Hamlet, offering His own life. In this story, the Author heaped all that He loathed, all that displeased Him, all the wrongness of the world, onto Himself. — N.D. Wilson

to an infinite artist, a Creator in love with His craft, there is no unimportant corner, there is no thrown-away image, no tattered thread in the novel left untied. — N.D. Wilson

As sub-assistant-treasurer in this archipelago, there are conversations I've been meaning to have. We could have those now, young Loam. — N.D. Wilson

Butter laughed beneath sea salt, and gravy anointed them both. — N.D. Wilson

The God who looked on you with joy when you were small and racing across His gift of green grass on His gift of feet beneath His gift of sky watched by His gift of a mother with His gift of love in His gift of her eyes, is the same God who will look on you as that race finally ends. He is the same, but we have changed, between our opening lines and our final page. (163) — N.D. Wilson

Cowards live for the sake of living, but for heroes, life is a weapon, a thing to be spent, a gift to be given to the weak and the lost and the weary, even to the foolish and the cowardly. — N.D. Wilson

I love the world as it is, because I love what it will be. — N.D. Wilson

Do not fear the shadowy places. You will never be the first one there. Another went ahead and down until He came out the other side. — N.D. Wilson

The clear water rippled gently, licking the line of fresh blue tile around its rim like a liquid puppy waiting to be played with. — N.D. Wilson

And a smaller, sad, little-dead-poet sphere with acne scars spins around us lighting the night ... — N.D. Wilson

Gilbert Keith Chesterton (that fabulously large Catholic writer) overheard someone making fun of Milton (it didn't matter that the insults were all true). — N.D. Wilson

I love it with all of its villains and pretty liars and self-righteous pompers — N.D. Wilson

Here Spring just grows and greens and warms, spreading life, wrapping us in her arms, until suddenly we realize that she's not a girl anymore. She's a woman. A woman named Summer. — N.D. Wilson

But something is going to happen, that's for sure. It depends on how bold we choose to be. We could get out, maybe, or we could die, or we could be badly injured going over a waterfall and end up on a gravel beach only to be found by a young boy who would carve messages in their toes and shove us back out to sea. There are lots of possibilities, and I am happy with all of them."

"Do you like mornings?" Tom asked, leaning on his elbow.

"Not usually," Reg said. "I'm typically rather sullen over my breakfast, and I'm sure the crawdads notice. But what is truly strange is that I never liked mornings when I could have them with real sunrises and real dew on roses and real paperboys wrecking real bicycles on the sidewalk outside my window. How I ever could have remained asleep and voluntarily missed a sunrise, I can't explain. If you're right and we get out, I don't think I'll miss another one. — N.D. Wilson

If there are meta-beings, a god or gods who did not create the world, then they can tell us what to do the same way bullies can, though they have no jurisdiction. They can run our countries like Italian neighborhoods and along the same principles. Do it or get whacked. Bend your knees, slaughter bulls, lick dirt, give us your milk money. But might, even above the human level, does not make right.
But a creative God, a God without whom none of this would be, a God who spoke reality into being and shapes it even now, He has authority. The world is His. You are His the way my words are mine. We are dust spoken from nothing, shaped with the moisture of His breath, named and now-living. — N.D. Wilson

Complain. Whine. Be a fusser. The story needs those as well, because every butt needs a joke, and the audience must laugh. Whether they (and God) laugh at or with us is up to you. — N.D. Wilson

Truth: We are the present. We are now. We are the razor's edge of history. The future flies at us and from that dark blur we shape the past. And the past is forever. — N.D. Wilson

Affectation is really a question of heart motive. Growing into a persona is an essential part of maturing. Anything you might choose to do is going to contribute to one persona or another. People will only call attention to it if it is markedly different from the course you were apparently on before. — N.D. Wilson

That much life is heavy for the strongest shoulders. — N.D. Wilson

You fainted,' Tom said.
Reg coughed.
No, I didn't,' he said. 'Women faint. People afraid of needles faint. Men black out. — N.D. Wilson

Lewis had said that there is no creativity de novo in us - that we are all sub-creators pirating and rearranging portions of reality. I agreed. But it was only an idea. And then it took on flesh. I began to see the world more like a cook than a writer. There were boundless ingredients out there, combinations waiting to be discovered and simmered and served. There were truths and stories and characters and quirks that could clash badly, and some that could marry and birth sequels. I began to feel a lot more comfortable. It wasn't all on me to create. It was on me to find. To catch. To arrange. — N.D. Wilson

If God gives you (or makes you) a joke, what are you meant to do in response? (Receive it. Laugh.)
If God gives you an obstacle, what are you meant to do in response? (Receive it. Climb it. Then laugh.)
If God gives you more profound hardship, what are you meant to do in response? (Receive it. Climb it. Then laugh. Exhibit A: His Son.) — N.D. Wilson

We have been created as recipients. I look at the stars, at the grass, at my fat-faced children, at my fingernails, and I am oppressed by gratitude
I have been given a belly so that I might hunger. I have been given hunger so that I might be fed.
I look in the atheist's mirror. I look at his faith in the nonexistence of meaning. I look at his preaching and painting. I see nothing but a shit-storm.
Why would I walk through that door? Why would I live in your novel? — N.D. Wilson

Your life is your own, your glory is your glory, but you will lose it if you keep it for yourself. Grasp it for the sake of others ... — N.D. Wilson

Descartes, the Frenchman, had little trouble knowing that he existed. — N.D. Wilson

But the storm-whipsers sound more pleased to me. Excited eve
— N.D. Wilson

snow is overused. — N.D. Wilson

It is hard to stay focused with so much swirling around me. God is distracting. He never stops talking, and I can never stop listening. There is a reason we sleep. — N.D. Wilson

I'm not trying to con kids into optimism or false confidence. I really believe this stuff. My view of violence and victory in children's stories hinges entirely on my faith. Samson lost his eyes and died ... but he has new eyes in the resurrection. Israel was enslaved in Egypt, but God sent a wizard far more powerful than Gandalf to save His people. Christ took the world's darkness on his shoulders and died in agony. But then ... Easter.
In the end, good wins. Always. — N.D. Wilson

In this world, there is no true freeze frame. Pictures do not escape time. But they do sit in it. Pictures are men grabbing at wind to make themselves feel less beaten by the driving current of this river. We pinch brushes to pinch moments, feelings, and ... that thing that was just now but now it's gone. Did you catch that? We push buttons and point electric boxes. Did you get that? And most of the time we never go back to look. I got it (I think). But we feel better, like fishermen hooking everything but reeling rarely. — N.D. Wilson

Imagine a poem written with such enormous three-dimensional words that we had to invent a smaller word to reference each of the big ones; that we had to rewrite the whole thing in shorthand, smashing it into two dimensions, just to talk about it. Or don't imagine it. Look outside. Human language is our attempt at navigating God's language; it is us running between the lines of His epic, climbing on the vowels and building houses out of the consonants. — N.D. Wilson

Here, in this painting, in these (hopefully) creative meditations, you will see teh same sky and the same sun, the same story of struggle, of fall and grace, of descent and ascent, of death and resurrection. The same God. The same gifts. If He's not tired of it, why should I be? If His brush is still in His hand, if His words still roll, what can I do but stick my tongue out the cornder of my mouth and diligently (but pitifully) rip Him off? What can I do but meditate on His meditations? (xii) — N.D. Wilson

In this story, the sun moves. In this story, every night meets a dawn and burns away in the bright morning. In this story, Winter can never hold back the Spring ... He is the best of all possible audiences, the only Audience to see every scene, the Author who became a Character and heaped every shadow on Himself. The Greeks were right. Live in fear of a grinding end and a dank hereafter. Unless you know a bigger God, or better yet, are related to Him by blood. — N.D. Wilson

May you fear no evil. ...And may evil fear you. — N.D. Wilson

Boys should sleep in during the summer. I don't know how else people expect them to grow. — N.D. Wilson

Lord, we flail. Forgive the lies we tell from purple thrones on TBN. Forgive the lies we tell in shrines. Forgive every attempt at self-redemption, the holy efforts we call our own, all the clawing we call resurrection. Bury us. Take us to helpless dust. Then roll away the stone and call us by our names. Make us all Lazarus. (125) — N.D. Wilson

Drink your wine. Laugh from your gut. Burden your moments with thankfulness. Be as empty as you can be when that clock winds down. Spend your life. And if time is a river, may you leave a wake. — N.D. Wilson

The fall of man did not introduce evil; it placed us on the wrong side of it, under its rule, needing rescue. — N.D. Wilson

This world is beautiful but badly broken. St. Paul said that it groans, but I love it even in its groaning. I love this round stage where we act out the tragedies and the comedies of history. I love it with all of its villains and petty liars and self-righteous pompers. I love the ants and the laughter of wide-eyed children encountering their first butterfly. I love it as it is, because it is a story, and it isn't stuck in one place. It is full of conflict and darkness like every good story. And like every good story, there will be an ending. I love the world as it is, because I love what it will be. I love it because it spins and tilts, because it's dizzying, because of the night sky and the swirling lights. But I have run too far ahead. We should be more ... philosophical. — N.D. Wilson

In Bright Shadow: C.S. Lewis on the Imagination for Theology and Discipleship — N.D. Wilson

God is a God of galaxies, of storms, of roaring seas and boiling thunder, but He is also the God of bread baking, of a child's smile, of dust motes in the sun. He is who He is, and always shall be. Look around you now. He is speaking always and everywhere. His personality can be seen and known and leaned upon. The sun is belching flares while mountains scrape our sky while ants are milking aphids on their colonial leaves and dolphins are laughing in the surf and wheat is rippling and wind is whipping and a boy is looking into the eyes of a girl and mortals are dying. — N.D. Wilson

Plato, the first true pope of philosophy (sorry, Socrates), argued for a World of Forms above the reality-a transcendent plane of perfect essences, pure and lovely, where nothing ever gets muddy (including the essence of mud.) — N.D. Wilson

I've seen a baby born. And, ahem, I know what made it. But I'm not telling, you'd never believe me. — N.D. Wilson

Son," his father said. "Run faithfully to the end, and like all good men, you will die of having lived. — N.D. Wilson

Columbus was the first to come to the east. Vikings don't count, and neither do all the people who were standing on the beaches and waving when he got here. — N.D. Wilson

What is this world? What is it for? It is art. It is the best of all possible art, a finite picture of the Infinite. — N.D. Wilson

If you knew the meaning of life, would you necessarily like it? — N.D. Wilson

Cyrus walked straight to the tallest crack of light, a seam between two doors. They were locked, but they were also thin and old, and they bent a little with pressure from his shoulder.

He backed up.

"Try one of Skelton's keys," said Antigone. "Is there a keyhole?"

"Nope." Cyrus threw himself against the doors. Wood popped, but he bounced back. "I can break it."

"You mean a rib? Maybe your shoulder?" Antigone adjusted her grip, propping Horace in front of her.

"There's just one little bolt," said Cyrus. "And it's set in old wood." He paused. What was he hearing? Voices. Shouting. "You hear that?" he asked.

Antigone nodded. "They don't sound happy."

This time, Cyrus used his foot. The wood splintered, and the two doors wobbled open onto a world of emerald and sunlight. — N.D. Wilson

In The Silver Chair, the Marsh-wiggle Puddleglum is all wisdom in rebutting the witch as she denies the existence of the world in which he believes. But as children's fiction isn't quite academically respectable, I'll pretend that I learned this from Blaise Pascal. [ ... ] If the world really is accidental and devoid of meaning, and you and I have no more value in the cosmos than you average bread mold, and Beauty and Goodness are artificial constructs imagined within an explosion, constructs that are controlled by chemical reactions within the accident and have no necessary correspondence to reality, then my made-up children's world licks your real world silly. Depart from me. Go drown in your seething accident. Puddleglum and I are staying here. — N.D. Wilson

Frank, I ran into Gladys and Billy at the store yesterday. Do you know what he said to me?"
The girls went very quiet. Frank didn't look up.
"Hello?" he asked, and kept rubbing Henry's knife.
Dotty hit him with her rag. "He said that. And so did she. But the important part was when he said, 'Frank ever get that door open?' Do you know what I said? What I said was
Are you ready for this? I said, 'No,'"
"Ah" Frank said. He lifted Henry's knife up to his mouth and dabbed the blade with his tongue. "That's my honest wife. I appreciate you lookin' out for my dignity. — N.D. Wilson

Don't follow me. I don't want to kill you."
"You're too kind. — N.D. Wilson

It's the dull knife that cuts you. — N.D. Wilson

I knew I was different from the rest of you plebes. Look how silly and gothic you all look with your skinny, knobbed arms. I'm unique. Neoclassical. — N.D. Wilson

Tom had traveled around the sun eleven times when the delivery truck brought his mother's newest fridge, but a number doesn't really describe his age. — N.D. Wilson

Welcome to His poem. His play. His novel. Skip the bowls of fruit and statues. Let the page flick your thumbs. This is His spoken word. — N.D. Wilson

Living is the same thing as dying. Living well is the same thing as dying for others. — N.D. Wilson

Do not resent your place in the story. Do not imagine yourself elsewhere. Do not close your eyes and picture a world without thorns, without shadows, without hawks. Change this world. Use your body like a tool meant to be used up, discarded, and replaced. Better every life you touch. We will reach the final chapter. When we have eyes that can stare into the sun, eyes that only squint for the Shenikah, then we will see laughing children pulling cobras by their tails, and hawks and rabbits playing tag. — N.D. Wilson

Caves and darkness can't hold you when you die, they can only hold your bones. — N.D. Wilson

Glory is sacrifice, glory is exhaustion, glory is having nothing left to give.
Almost.
It is death by living. — N.D. Wilson

That wasn't me. I'm not a morning person. There's another person inside of me that does all the morning things. — N.D. Wilson

Is this what mortality means? Is this how I know my body is of the sort that can stop, that can feed crabs, that will someday be placed in a box and dropped in a hole? I have a need to stand near the edge, to feel this small risk, to feel my heart beat. If I were not the dying sort, I would be standing closer, beneath the full blow of each breaker. — N.D. Wilson

Tragedy isn't an easy thing to kill. It takes more than a turtle. Tragedy must be destroyed by someone willing to be swallowed by it, willing to be broken, torn out of the flesh, but able to return to it. Someone must be able to shatter the tragic from within and exit into comedy, able to rip a hole so wide that a train of souls, a parade, could follow after, banging drums and throwing candy as they strolled into the sun. — N.D. Wilson

He was pierced and scourged and mocked. He was cursed and raised up on a tree, but He was in that ancient pose of victory.
An old man on a hill, a blind man between two pillars, the God Man on a cross.
Glory is sacrifice, glory is exhaustion, glory is having nothing left to give.
Almost.
It is death by living.
The earth shook. The roof came down. The world changed. The armies fled.
That Moses kept his hands up. — N.D. Wilson

Writing every day is very, very helpful, but set the bar at a place where you have no excuse: It doesn't matter how tired you are, how late it is, you will do it. So if you say, "I will write one hundred words a day" - set the bar there, and then you can actually get over that bar. — N.D. Wilson

Stealing ideas from contemporaries is rude and tasteless. Stealing from the long dead is considered literary and admirable. The same is true of grave-robbing. Loot your local cemetery and find yourself mired in social awkwardness. But unearth the tomb of an ancient king and you can feel free to pop off his toe rings. You'll probably end up on a book tour, or bagging an honorary degree or two. — N.D. Wilson

Horace smiled. Always breakfast like a man condemned. One never knows that a day may bring. — N.D. Wilson

Nietzsche- a weak but strongly mustachioed, Lutheran Pastor's son. — N.D. Wilson

As long as I'm dealing in honesty, I may as well admit that I have been more influenced (as a person) by my childhood readings of Tolkien and Lewis than I have been by any philosophers I read in college and grad school. The events and characters in Narnia and Middle Earth shaped my ideals, my dreams, my goals. Kant just annoyed me. — N.D. Wilson

In the Darwinian world, self-preservation is the ultimate shiny good. — N.D. Wilson

Do not cry to me. I can only cry with you. I will not die for you. I am still too young in the meaning of love. Talk to the Fool, to the one who left a throne to enter an anthill. He will enter your shadow. It cannot taint HIm. He has done it before. His holiness is not fragile. It burns like a father to the sun. Touch His skin, put your hand in His side. He has kept His scars when He did not have to. Give Him your pain and watch it overwhelmed, burned away in the joy He takes in loving. In stooping. — N.D. Wilson

I love it as it is, because it is a story, and it isn't stuck in one place. — N.D. Wilson

Evil is an adjective. It is an adjective used to describe those actions of man (and their effects) that are contrary to the nature of God. — N.D. Wilson

My wife and I tend to overgift to our kids at Christmas. We laugh and feel foolish when a kid is so distracted with one toy that we must force them into opening the next, or when something grand goes completely unnoticed in a corner. How consumerist, right? How crassly American. How like God. We are all that overwhelmed kid, not even noticing our heartbeats, not even noticing our breathing, not even noticing that our fingertips can feel and pick things up, that pie smells like pie and that our hangnails heal and that honey-crisp apples are real and that dogs wag their tails and that awe perpetually awaits us in the sky. The real yearning, the solomonic state of mind, is caused by too much gift, by too many things to love in too short a time. Because the more we are given, the more we feel the loss as we are all made poor and sent back to our dust. — N.D. Wilson

A neutral observer would not find this world to be believable. Ergo, the cause of said unbelievable world must place similar stretch marks on the imagination. Step — N.D. Wilson