Famous Quotes Ipsum
Word Lists: Famous Quotes
The artist's life is in his work, and this is the place to observe him. loyalty to a petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul. action is eloquence. to talk to each other is but a more animated and audible thinking. the change of life comes when you meet yourself at a crossroads and you decide whether to be honest or not before you die. give me a museum and i'll fill it. the sky was that deep sunday blue going black, just on the cusp of color seeping into empty space. it is curious how silly, trivial things, sometimes for no apparent reason, become significant. at first you laugh at these things, you think they are of no importance, you go on and you feel that you haven't got the strength to stop yourself... and so it seems to me that if i die, i shall take part in life one way or another..
All art is quite useless. 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. saturday found him for the first time strolling alone through zurich, breathing in the heady smell of his freedom. new adventures hid around each corner. the future was again a secret. anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. the search for truth is more precious than its possession. do, or do not. there is no "try". it is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of anna, vronsky, the railway station and death, or the meeting of beethoven, tomas, tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. for he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty. destiny is not what is already made; destiny is what we are making. many people think that we are in the hands of destiny, driven in whatever direction life desires or wills, but really, we are the masters of our destiny, especially from the moment we realize this fact. man is responsible for his rise and fall. i have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws ere i'll weep. too often we get scared. scared of what we might not be able to do. scared of what people might think if we tried. we let fears stand in the way of our hopes. we say no when we want to say yes. we sit quietly when we want to scream. and we shout with the others when we should keep our mouths shut. why? after all, we do only go around once. there's really no time to be afraid. just do it. two paths diverged in a wood, and i - i took the one less traveled by. and that has made all the difference. religion is a daughter of hope and fear, explaining to ignorance the nature of the unknowable. all things are possible until they are proved impossible - and even the impossible, may only be so as of now. we don't see things as they are - we see them as we are. my piano is a universe. those eighty-eight keys arrange the seven planets in musical scales, an aural cosmos. 'the horror of that moment,' the king went on,' i shall never, never forget!'<p> 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. are there not chapters in everybody's life that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of history? 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 unexamined life is not worth living. what is life? it is the flash of a firefly in the night. it is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. it is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. i always thought of myself as a house. i was always what i lived in. it didn't need to be big. it didn't even need to be beautiful. it just needed to be mine. i became what i was meant to be. i built myself a life. i built myself a house..
The engine that gives its mysterious inner life to a work of art must be the subterranean expression of a wish, working its way to the surface of a narrative. artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. the stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. the moment of change is the only poem. and may these characters remain / when all is ruin once again it's strange that words are so inadequate. yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words. simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. when you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you. by all accounts, sex is a personally encoded communique, continually reinvented. there are no mistakes, no coincidences. all events are blessings given to us to learn from. destiny is not what is already made; destiny is what we are making. many people think that we are in the hands of destiny, driven in whatever direction life desires or wills, but really, we are the masters of our destiny, especially from the moment we realize this fact. man is responsible for his rise and fall. do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain. there must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but i don't know many of them. whenever i'm sad i'm going to die, or so nervous i can't sleep, or in love with somebody i won't be seeing for a week, i slump down just so far and then i say: 'i'll go take a hot bath.' there are absolute things in the world but you must look deeply for them. the things that first present themselves to your notice are for the most part relative. even for me life had its gleams of sunshine. but i always think that the best way to know god is to love many things. all things are possible until they are proved impossible - and even the impossible, may only be so as of now. a bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. he who has a 'why' to live can bear almost any 'how'. walter turned on the radio: electric violins wailing, twisted romance, the four-square beat of heart break. trite suffering, but suffering nonetheless. the entertainment business. what voyeurs we all have become. a memory without a blot of contamination must be an exquisite treasure, an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment 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. the fact is, i was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the french would say: i was conscious that at moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties and, like any other rebel slave, i felt resolved, in my desperation, to go to all lengths. 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. when christ said: "i was hungry and you fed me," he didn't mean only the hunger for bread and for food; he also meant the hunger to be loved. jesus himself experienced this loneliness. he came amongst his own and his own received him not, and it hurt him then and it has kept on hurting him. the same hunger, the same loneliness, the same having no one to be accepted by and to be loved and wanted by. every human being in that case resembles christ in his loneliness; and that is the hardest part, that's real hunger..
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All art is quite useless. 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. saturday found him for the first time strolling alone through zurich, breathing in the heady smell of his freedom. new adventures hid around each corner. the future was again a secret. anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. the search for truth is more precious than its possession. do, or do not. there is no "try". it is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of anna, vronsky, the railway station and death, or the meeting of beethoven, tomas, tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. for he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty. destiny is not what is already made; destiny is what we are making. many people think that we are in the hands of destiny, driven in whatever direction life desires or wills, but really, we are the masters of our destiny, especially from the moment we realize this fact. man is responsible for his rise and fall. i have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws ere i'll weep. too often we get scared. scared of what we might not be able to do. scared of what people might think if we tried. we let fears stand in the way of our hopes. we say no when we want to say yes. we sit quietly when we want to scream. and we shout with the others when we should keep our mouths shut. why? after all, we do only go around once. there's really no time to be afraid. just do it. two paths diverged in a wood, and i - i took the one less traveled by. and that has made all the difference. religion is a daughter of hope and fear, explaining to ignorance the nature of the unknowable. all things are possible until they are proved impossible - and even the impossible, may only be so as of now. we don't see things as they are - we see them as we are. my piano is a universe. those eighty-eight keys arrange the seven planets in musical scales, an aural cosmos. 'the horror of that moment,' the king went on,' i shall never, never forget!'<p> 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. are there not chapters in everybody's life that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of history? 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 unexamined life is not worth living. what is life? it is the flash of a firefly in the night. it is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. it is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. i always thought of myself as a house. i was always what i lived in. it didn't need to be big. it didn't even need to be beautiful. it just needed to be mine. i became what i was meant to be. i built myself a life. i built myself a house..
The engine that gives its mysterious inner life to a work of art must be the subterranean expression of a wish, working its way to the surface of a narrative. artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. the stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. the moment of change is the only poem. and may these characters remain / when all is ruin once again it's strange that words are so inadequate. yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words. simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. when you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you. by all accounts, sex is a personally encoded communique, continually reinvented. there are no mistakes, no coincidences. all events are blessings given to us to learn from. destiny is not what is already made; destiny is what we are making. many people think that we are in the hands of destiny, driven in whatever direction life desires or wills, but really, we are the masters of our destiny, especially from the moment we realize this fact. man is responsible for his rise and fall. do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain. there must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but i don't know many of them. whenever i'm sad i'm going to die, or so nervous i can't sleep, or in love with somebody i won't be seeing for a week, i slump down just so far and then i say: 'i'll go take a hot bath.' there are absolute things in the world but you must look deeply for them. the things that first present themselves to your notice are for the most part relative. even for me life had its gleams of sunshine. but i always think that the best way to know god is to love many things. all things are possible until they are proved impossible - and even the impossible, may only be so as of now. a bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. he who has a 'why' to live can bear almost any 'how'. walter turned on the radio: electric violins wailing, twisted romance, the four-square beat of heart break. trite suffering, but suffering nonetheless. the entertainment business. what voyeurs we all have become. a memory without a blot of contamination must be an exquisite treasure, an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment 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. the fact is, i was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the french would say: i was conscious that at moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties and, like any other rebel slave, i felt resolved, in my desperation, to go to all lengths. 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. when christ said: "i was hungry and you fed me," he didn't mean only the hunger for bread and for food; he also meant the hunger to be loved. jesus himself experienced this loneliness. he came amongst his own and his own received him not, and it hurt him then and it has kept on hurting him. the same hunger, the same loneliness, the same having no one to be accepted by and to be loved and wanted by. every human being in that case resembles christ in his loneliness; and that is the hardest part, that's real hunger..