Famous Quotes Ipsum

Imagination is more powerful than knowledge. i saw the angel in the marble and carved until i set him free. curiosity is braver than rage. exploration is a nobler calling than combat. the unknown beckons to us, singing its siren song and making our hearts pound with fear and desire. for as long as i can remember, i had been transparent to myself, unselfconscious, learning, doing, most of every day. now i was in my own way; i myself was a dark object i could not ignore. i couldn't remember how to forget myself. i didn't want to think about myself, to reckon myself in, to deal with myself every livelong minute on top of everything else - but swerve as i might, i couldn't avoid it. i was a boulder blocking my own path. i was a dog barking between my own ears, a barking dog who wouldn't hush. so this was adolescence..... i sincerely hope a new generation will stand up that says: let's develop our brains and not just our bodies. girls that will say to a christina aguilera: you think you're a strong woman because you show your red thong? get a grip and put on some clothes. we do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand. the blood jet is poetry, there is no stopping it. 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. truth is in the eye of the beholder. weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. drop the question what tomorrow may bring, and count as profit every day that fate allows you. if you have only one smile in you, give it to the people you love. don't be surly at home, then go out in the street and start grinning ''good morning'' at total strangers. what do you experience with your first mouthful of hot fudge sundae? its not surprising that we carry it over to describe the intensity of love and sex. why? wherefore? inasmuch as which? there is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear. i often wonder: suppose we could begin life over again, knowing what we were doing? suppose we could use one life, already ended, as sort of a rough draft for another? i think that every one of us would try, more than anything else, not to repeat himself, at the very least he would rearrange his manner of life, he would make sure of rooms like these, with flowers and light... never during its pilgrimage is the spirit of man completely adrift and alone. from start to finish its nucleus is the atman - the self - luminous abiding point, boundless as the sky, indivisible, absolute, the only reality. the soul is an emanation of the divinity, a part of the soul of the world, a ray from the source of light. it comes from without into the human body, as into a temporary abode, it goes out of it anew; it wanders in ethereal regions, it returns to visit.... it passes into other habitations, for the soul is immortal. the fear of death follows from the fear of life. a man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. the happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions. it's really a wonder that i haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. yet i keep them, because in spite of everything i still believe that people are really good at heart. i simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. ordinary people believe only in the possible. extraordinary people visualize not what is possible or probable, but rather what is impossible. and by visualizing the impossible, they begin to see it as possible. moonlight is sculpture; sunlight is painting. my piano is a universe. those eighty-eight keys arrange the seven planets in musical scales, an aural cosmos. the street corner where always, for years, in passing you felt, unexplained, a pang of despair, like nausea, till one night, late, late, on that spot you were struck, struck still, and again felt how her head had thrust to your shoulder. a memory without a blot of contamination must be an exquisite treasure, an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment to love another person is to see the face of god. he felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not now where he ended and she began. i think the loneliest thing is to be alone with another person. i'd rather be by myself than with someone who has no idea who i am. we grow neither better nor worse as we get old, but more like ourselves..

Tomboy. alright, call me a tomboy. tomboys get medals. tomboys win championships. tomboys can fly. oh, and tomboys aren't boys. peace begins with a smile. early in the novel that tereza clutched under her arm when she went to visit tomas, anna meets vronsky in curious circumstances: they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train. at the end of the novel, anna throws herself under a train. this symmetrical composition - the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end - may seem quite 'novelistic' to you, and i am willing to agree, but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as 'fictive', 'fabricated', and 'untrue to life' into the word 'novelistic'. because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion. they are composed like music. guided by his sense of beauty, and individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (beethoven's music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. anna could have chosen another way to take her life. but the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress. do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain. the body of b. franklin, / printer, / like the cover of an old book, / its contents torn out / and / stripped of its lettering and gilding, / lies here / food for worms, / but the work shall not be lost, / for it will, as he believed / appear once more / in a new and more elegant edition / revised and corrected / by the author. what i couldn't say was that the real reason was so much deeper and harder and that we spend our lives deceiving ourselves of these real reasons, perhaps because when they are clear they are too painful. i'll pretend this is real / 'cause this is what i like best it's really a wonder that i haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. yet i keep them, because in spite of everything i still believe that people are really good at heart. i simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. the difference between the possible and the impossible lies in a person's determination. how pleased can one sun setting make you if you humble yourself to it? how grateful can you really say that you are just to be here and live through it? i took us for better and i took us for worse / don't you ever forget it / now the steel bars between me and a promise / suddenly bend with ease / the closer i'm bound in love to you / the closer i am to free the person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. his heart withers if it does not answer another heart. his mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration..

Imagining something is better than remembering something. our collective will to resist what is unjust is like a fire that cannot be put out. we turn, not older with years, but newer every day. the best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. they must be felt with the heart. love is a great beautifier. everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. 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. we are wise, wise women. we are giggling girls. sit down before fact like a little child, and be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever abyss nature leads, or you shall learn nothing. do, or do not. there is no "try". and if tonight my soul may find her peace / in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, / and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower / then i have been dipped again in god, and new-created. she thought now of the pink anemones waving in that water. like herself, when he'd first spied on her with her sensitive, fleshy tentacles of thought waving all around her, until he'd touched and made her draw up quickly into a stony fist. but he knew just how to touch her, speak to her, breathe on her, to draw her out again. physical pleasure was such a convincing illusion, and sex, the ultimate charade of safety. it's awfully hard to be b-b-brave when you are only a very small animal. there is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear. janis joplin taught me about passion. the form of government most suitable to the artist is no government at all. in memory, everything seems to happen to music. you teach what you have to learn. it is not necessary to have achieved perfection to speak of perfection. it is not necessary to have achieved mastery to speak of mastery. it is not necessary to have achieved the highest level of evolution to speak of the highest level of evolution. seek only to be genuine. strive to be sincere. perfection is achieved not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. 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. horror is shock, a time of utter blindness. horror lacks every hint of beauty. all we can see is the piercing light of an unknown event awaiting us. sadness, on the other hand, assumes we are in the know..