Pan's Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun

by Guillermo del Toro

Her mother said fairy tales didn’t have anything to do with the world, but Ofelia knew better. They had taught her everything about it.

Evil seldom takes shape immediately. It is often little more than a whisper at first. A glance. A betrayal. But then it grows and takes root, still invisible, unnoticed. Only fairy tales give evil a proper shape. The big bad wolves, the evil kings, the demons, and devils . . .

“In our choices lie our fate.”

Ofelia didn’t remind her mother that for her, there was nothing better than a book. Her mother wouldn’t understand. She didn’t make books her shelter or allow them to take her to another world. She could only see this world, and then, Ofelia thought, only sometimes. It was part of her mother’s sadness to be earthbound. Books could have told her so much about this world and about places far away, about animals and plants, about the stars! They could be windows and doors, paper wings to help her fly away. Maybe her mother had just forgotten how to fly. Or maybe she’d never learned.

Sometimes the objects we hold dear give away who we are even more than the people we love.

The sins of men are not forgotten. They bring forth poisonous fruit.

Sometimes even the healers are turned into butchers by the darkness of this world.

The worst fears are always underneath us, hidden, shaking the ground we wish to be firm and safe.