Famous Quotes Ipsum
Word Lists: Famous Quotes
. Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. power consists.... in deciding which stories will be told. all good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath. tomboy. alright, call me a tomboy. tomboys get medals. tomboys win championships. tomboys can fly. oh, and tomboys aren't boys. weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. if i can stop one heart from breaking, i will not live in vain. anyone can look for fashion in a boutique or history in a museum. the creative explorer looks for history in a hardware store and fashion in an airport. the cure for everything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea. when i have a terrible need of - shall i say the word? - religion, then i go out and paint the stars. i try to draw the line but it ends up running down the middle of me most of the time. for tomorrow may rain, so i'll follow the sun. religion is what the individual does with his own solitariness. run for office? no. i've slept with too many women, i've done too many drugs, and i've been to too many parties. 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. to love another person is to see the face of god. it is beautiful that our lives coincided for so long. goodbyes always make my throat hurt . . . i need more hellos. to conquer loneliness we shall each have to assume the sacred responsibility of becoming a complete person. and most of all, to define ourselves without always including someone else in the definition. 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. a life of self-indulgence, if led with a whole heart, may also bring a certain wisdom. 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. neurosis is the way of avoiding non-being by avoiding being. 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..
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. it took me too long to realize / that i don't take good pictures / 'cause i have the kind of beauty / that moves to read a writer, for me, is not merely to get an idea of what he says, but to go off with him and travel in his company. we do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand. the writer should never be ashamed of staring. there is nothing that does not require his attention. words mean more than what is set down on paper - it takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning. 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. the feeling of sunday is the same everywhere: heavy, melancholy, standing still. like when they say, 'as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; world without end.' the greatest complexity is the greatest simplicity. the more "complex" a system is, the more simple is its design. indeed, it is utterly elegant in its simplicity. the master understands this. that is why a highly evolved being lives in utter simplicity. 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. there has never been an answer. there never will be an answer. that's the answer. for tomorrow may rain, so i'll follow the sun. keep your face to the sunshine, and you cannot see the shadows. never judge a book by its movie. most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons. as we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties, the inmost strength of the heart is developed. the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all. 'so i ran like the wind to the water "please don't leave me again" i cried. and i threw bitter tears at the ocean and all that came back was the tide. loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty. it's like you come onto this planet with a crayon box. now, you may get the 8-pak, or you may get the 16-pak, but it's all in what you do with the crayons--the colors-- that you're given. now don't worry about coloring inside the lines or outside the lines. i say, color outside the lines! color right off the page! both my wife and daughter think i'm this gigantic loser and they're right.
My first thought about art, as a child, was that the artist brings something into the world that didn't exist before, and that he does it without destroying something else, a kind of refutation of the conservation of matter. that still seems to me its central magic, its core of joy. loyalty to a petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul. we turn, not older with years, but newer every day. now, what was tiring had disappeared and only the beauty remained. in tereza's eyes, books were the emblems of a secret brotherhood. for she had but a single weapon against the world of crudity surrounding her: the books she took out of the municipal library, and above all, the novels. she had read any number of them, from fielding to thomas mann. they not only offered her the possibility of an imaginary escape from a life she found unsatisfying; they also had a meaning for her as physical objects: she loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. it had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. it differentiated her from the others. an illiterate underbred book . . . the book of a self-taught working man . . . egotistic, insistent, raw, striking, and ultimately nauseating. do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words? 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. never joke about a woman's hair, clothes or menstrual cycle. page one. can i follow you home and listen to you think? do, or do not. there is no "try". the robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught tangled in a woman's body? besides, i didn't have anything to fear anymore. maybe all post-suicidals feel that way. it's really great - it gives you a real sense of, not bravery exactly, and not recklessness, quite, but something in between the two. if i'd survived my own best attempts at dying, it probably just wasn't in the cards for me to perish young. if i can stop one heart from breaking, i will not live in vain. do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain. 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. what is a hero? primarily one who has conquered his fears. watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star; one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever. the choice may have been mistaken - the choosing was not. one can go on living when one is intoxicated by life. i say to mankind, be not curious about god. for i, who am curious about each, am not curious about god - i hear and behold god in every object, yet understand god not in the least. one of the earliest lessons i learned as a child was that if you looked away from something, it might not be there when you looked back. but you will,' the queen said, 'if you don't make a memorandum of it.'</p>.
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They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. it took me too long to realize / that i don't take good pictures / 'cause i have the kind of beauty / that moves to read a writer, for me, is not merely to get an idea of what he says, but to go off with him and travel in his company. we do not write in order to be understood, we write in order to understand. the writer should never be ashamed of staring. there is nothing that does not require his attention. words mean more than what is set down on paper - it takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning. 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. the feeling of sunday is the same everywhere: heavy, melancholy, standing still. like when they say, 'as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; world without end.' the greatest complexity is the greatest simplicity. the more "complex" a system is, the more simple is its design. indeed, it is utterly elegant in its simplicity. the master understands this. that is why a highly evolved being lives in utter simplicity. 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. there has never been an answer. there never will be an answer. that's the answer. for tomorrow may rain, so i'll follow the sun. keep your face to the sunshine, and you cannot see the shadows. never judge a book by its movie. most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons. as we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties, the inmost strength of the heart is developed. the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all. 'so i ran like the wind to the water "please don't leave me again" i cried. and i threw bitter tears at the ocean and all that came back was the tide. loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty. it's like you come onto this planet with a crayon box. now, you may get the 8-pak, or you may get the 16-pak, but it's all in what you do with the crayons--the colors-- that you're given. now don't worry about coloring inside the lines or outside the lines. i say, color outside the lines! color right off the page! both my wife and daughter think i'm this gigantic loser and they're right.
My first thought about art, as a child, was that the artist brings something into the world that didn't exist before, and that he does it without destroying something else, a kind of refutation of the conservation of matter. that still seems to me its central magic, its core of joy. loyalty to a petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul. we turn, not older with years, but newer every day. now, what was tiring had disappeared and only the beauty remained. in tereza's eyes, books were the emblems of a secret brotherhood. for she had but a single weapon against the world of crudity surrounding her: the books she took out of the municipal library, and above all, the novels. she had read any number of them, from fielding to thomas mann. they not only offered her the possibility of an imaginary escape from a life she found unsatisfying; they also had a meaning for her as physical objects: she loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. it had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. it differentiated her from the others. an illiterate underbred book . . . the book of a self-taught working man . . . egotistic, insistent, raw, striking, and ultimately nauseating. do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words? 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. never joke about a woman's hair, clothes or menstrual cycle. page one. can i follow you home and listen to you think? do, or do not. there is no "try". the robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught tangled in a woman's body? besides, i didn't have anything to fear anymore. maybe all post-suicidals feel that way. it's really great - it gives you a real sense of, not bravery exactly, and not recklessness, quite, but something in between the two. if i'd survived my own best attempts at dying, it probably just wasn't in the cards for me to perish young. if i can stop one heart from breaking, i will not live in vain. do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain. 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. what is a hero? primarily one who has conquered his fears. watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star; one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever. the choice may have been mistaken - the choosing was not. one can go on living when one is intoxicated by life. i say to mankind, be not curious about god. for i, who am curious about each, am not curious about god - i hear and behold god in every object, yet understand god not in the least. one of the earliest lessons i learned as a child was that if you looked away from something, it might not be there when you looked back. but you will,' the queen said, 'if you don't make a memorandum of it.'</p>.