The spaces between the perceiver and the thing perceived can [...] be closed with a shout of recognition.
... too much brooding, not enough doing.
I've never met—have you?—a truly sophisticated man. World-weary and discreet—of course. But never sophisticated.
You will live when you live. No one else can ever live your life and no one else will ever know what you know...
In the dark that followed - Lucy said; where I was born, the trees were always in the sun. And I left that place because it was intolerant of rain. Now, we are here in a place where there are no trees...
My whole life is out here-the whole of my life...I'd come here naked, as a boy-straight from that river out there-throw my clothes on the floor and climb into that loft and lie there dreaming in the h...
Светът, каза той, свършва всеки ден – и започва на следващия
Go, he said; in peace. And sing with the whales.
Complaints about reality are immature.
Think of any great man or woman. How can you separate them from the years in which they lived? You can't. Their greatness lies in their response to that moment.
The occupants of memory have to be protected from strangers.
So far, you have read of the deaths of 557,017 people – one of whom was killed by a streetcar, one of whom died of bronchitis and one of whom died in a barn with her rabbits.
Only one deaf God, who cannot see, remains—claiming all of creation as His own. If people would invest one hundredth of their devotion to this God in the living brothers and sisters amongst whom they...
I can't work in a house where there's saints. The minute there's saints, the devil sends messengers
He took his aim. His arm wavered. His eyes burned with sweat. Why didn't someone come and jump on his back and make him stop?He fired.A chair fell over in his mind.
He said that in a way being loved is like being told you never have to die.
Mrs Ross adjusted her veil but did not put the flask away... 'Why is this happening to us, Davenport? What does it mean - to kill your children? Kill them and then go in there and sing about it! What...
Frederick?Had she really spoken? Certainly she'd tried, but her voice had failed to materialize and all she heard was the sound of her nightgown ripping as Frederick pulled it over her head and threw...
Master Stuart made his letters into paper darts and launched them page by page from the roof of the house-watching them descend and fade into the green ravine below...Some he saved to trade at school...
I doubt we will ever be forgiven. All I hope is – they'll remember we were human beings