Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Suddenly Ka realized he was in love with İpek. And realizing that this love would determine the rest of his life, he was filled with dread.
Try to discover who I am from my choice of words and colors, as attentive people like yourselves might examine footprints to catch a thief.
If you asked me to marry you all over again today I'd say yes, said Valentine. And if I had only met you for the first time today, I'd ask.
If pigs could vote, the man with the slop bucket would be elected swineherd every time, no matter how much slaughtering he did on the side.
If he was a good man, how could he leave me? So he must not be a good man. But if he isn't good, then why does it hurt so much to lose him?
I have known men who have been sold and bought a hundred times, who have only got very fat and very comfortable in the process of exchange.
I wouldn't want to write a biography of anyone. I'd feel too inhibited by the facts and too much pressure to do the subject's life justice.
Retracing the various episodes of one's life, one is disconcerted to discover that one was not as noble as one thought oneself at the time.
To me, people's lives and loves are entwined with their characters, natures and circumstances. I regard all general advice with skepticism.
I feel the need to reaffirm all of it, the whole unhappy territory and all the things loved and unloveable in it, for it is all part of me.
The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow, I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.
Above all never forget that a marriage is in one way very much like a newspaper. It has to be made fresh every damn day of every damn year.
The Odyssey is the story of Americans up to the point where they are well-established, and even so it is detached from the historical side.
There's an old saying about truth setting you free. Don't buy it. Sometimes the truth slams the cell door shut and throws a thousand bolts.
He spreads his fingers over my heart, like he’s holding it, like it belongs to him, the hard-fought-for territory he’s won fair and square.
The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him.
A writer of fiction lives in fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not.
Prayers were held in Assembly Hall. We all perched in rows on wooden benches while teachers sat up on the platform in armchairs, facing us.
There is a loveliness to life that does not fade. Even in the terrors of the night, there is a tendency toward grace that does not fail us.
Every child can remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies.
Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
So soon as prudence has begun to grow up in the brain, like a dismal fungus, it finds its first expression in a paralysis of generous acts.
The child that is not clean and neat, With lots of toys and things to eat, He is a naughty child, I'm sure-- Or else his dear Papa is poor.
Every man makes his own summer. The season has no character of its own, unless one is a farmer with a professional concern for the weather.
I was not sure I wanted to issue orders to life; I rather liked the Greek notion of allowing Chance to take a formative hand in my affairs.
I am a central European with an English education and a deplorable tendency to constant self-analysis. I am irritable and have weak nerves.
Sometimes great, banned works defy the censor's description and impose themselves on the world - 'Ulysses,' 'Lolita,' the 'Arabian Nights.'
I am gagged and imprisoned. I can't even speak. I want to kick a football in a park with my son. Ordinary, banal life: my impossible dream.
My friend Lou Reed came to the end of his song. So very sad.But hey, Lou, you'll always take a walk on the wild side. Always a perfect day.
But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!
HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something? CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! (Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!
People went through life like well handled jugs, collecting chips and scrapes and stains from wear and tear, from holding and pouring life.
I don't like novels that tie everything up in a plot-y way. I always think that's not really true of life, particularly of people in power.
A book is a collaboration between the one who reads and what is read and, at its best, that coming together is a love story like any other.
Loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves.
Here you are truly separate from the earth, at least for a little while, removed from the cares and concerns that occupy you on the ground.
With the stick in my right hand, the throttle in my left, and the rudder beneath my feet, I can savor that essence from which life is made.
Quentin Tarantino is my 15-year-old son's favorite director, and by that I mean no condescension to either Tarantino or my 15-year-old son.
The idea that an author can extricate her or his own ongoing life experience from the tale being written is a conceit of very little worth.
You learn who you really are in a fight - what you're really made of. You have to face yourself and rise above your own fears and failings.
I’ll be damned,” he muttered.“Most likely.” She folded the blanket with efficient snaps. “And I may be joining you, after what we just did.
So each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, or at least some remote and distant hope.
Eden Robinson is one of those rare artists who comes to writing with a skill and maturity that has taken the rest of us decades to achieve.
Cell phones, alas, have pretty much ruined train travel, which I used to love. I could read or even sketch notes for what I was working on.
I've always got a novel under way, but if I try to work on it every day, exclusively, I falter. So I always keep more than one thing going.
Usually, when you make a decision in life, unless you have access to parallel universes, you can't truly judge how right that decision was.
Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it. Bolts of lightning, little rivulets of thunder. And I the eye of the storm.
Eyes open, then," I say, tapping the skin between my eyebrows. I don’t really need her eyes to be on mine, but I feel better when they are.
Dreams, I thought. They're the riches of a poor person, stashed in treasure chests buried deeply in the imagination. But are dreams enough?
Charity even for one person does not make sense except in terms of an effort to love all Creation in response to the Creator's love for it.