Famous Quotes Ipsum

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until i set him free. if the path is beautiful, let us not ask where it leads. there is a certain kind of kid who is so in love with words that she kisses the pictures of authors on the jackets of books. i was one. all i ever wanted was to be a writer. though this yearning now seems like aspiring to be a blacksmith in the age of the automobile, my childhood image of what a writer did bestowed superhuman powers on the profession. a writer sat privately at her desk and made public things happen. the power was godlike. the sense of accomplishment had to be the same. making words slant across the page was like making rain. flowers grew in ink. hurricanes and revolutions were stirred up by the sound of pen scratching paper. he had a word, too. love, he called it. but i had been used to words for a long time. i knew that that word was like the other, just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn't need a word for that any more than for pride or fear. it seems that whatever goes into my mouth makes me fat, just as whatever comes out of it embarrasses me. truth is in the eye of the beholder. the search for truth is more precious than its possession. spending time is inevitable. you're going to spend your time doing something. it might as well be something you want to do. but surely to tell these tall tales and others like them would be to speed the myth, the wicked lie, that the past is always tense and the future, perfect. and as archie knows, it's not like that. it's never been like that. can i follow you home and listen to you think? it is not the answer that enlightens, but the question. when i dare to be powerful / to use my strength / in the service of my vision / then it becomes / less and less important / whether i am afraid. it takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are. when i have a terrible need of - shall i say the word? - religion, then i go out and paint the stars. and so i choose to go with you / as if the choice were mine to make for tomorrow may rain, so i'll follow the sun. but to stand in the sun and melt into the wind? every man's memory is his private literature. the things we forget may as well never have happened, but she had many memories, both real and illusory, and that was like living twice. she used to tell her faithful friend, the sage tao chi'en, that her memory was like the hold of the ship where they had come to know one another: vast and somber, bursting with boxes, barrels, and sacks in which all of the events of her life were jammed. awake it was difficult to find anything in that chaotic clutter, but asleep she could, just as mama fresia had taught her in the gentle nights of her childhood, when the contours of reality were as faint as a tracery of pale ink. she entered the place of her dreams along a much traveled path and returned treading very carefully in order not to shatter the tenuous visions against the harsh light of consciousness. she put as much store in that process as others put in numbers, and she so refined the art of remembering that she could see miss rose bent over the crate of marseilles soap that was her first cradle. a wizard is never late. nor is he early. he arrives precisely when he means to. where there is great love there are always great miracles. i glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all. everybody loves a hero / an image to create / the antithesis of everything / inside ourselves we hate / but you'd better close your eyes / when it's time for them to die / because you'd hate to think the life you'd built upon them was a lie.

The blood jet is poetry, there is no stopping it. a warm smile is the universal language of kindness. it is not upon you alone the dark patches fall. the happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions. if any individual live too much in relations, so that he becomes a stranger to the resources of his own nature, he falls, after awhile, into a distraction, or imbecility, from which he can only be cured by a time of isolation, which gives the renovating fountains time to rise up..

Hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are anger and courage. anger that things are the way they are. courage to make them the way they should be. one can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar..