آیریس > آیریس's Quotes

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  • #1
    Hilary Mantel
    “It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.”
    Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

  • #2
    Frederick Buechner
    “Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day's chalking.”
    Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace

  • #3
    Percy Bysshe Shelley
    “The man
    Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys:
    Power, like a desolating pestilence,
    Pollutes whate'er it touches, and obedience,
    Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
    Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame,
    A mechanised automaton.”
    Percy Bysshe Shelley

  • #4
    Dante Alighieri
    “My son, you've seen the temporary fire
    and the eternal fire; you have reached
    the place past which my powers cannot see.
    I've brought you here through intellect and art;
    from now on, let your pleasure be your guide;
    you're past the steep and past the narrow paths.
    Look at the sun that shines upon your brow;
    look at the grasses, flowers, and the shrubs
    born here, spontaneously, of the earth.
    Among them, you can rest or walk until
    the coming of the glad and lovely eyes--
    those eyes that weeping, sent me to your side.
    Await no further word or sign from me:
    your will is free, erect, and whole-- to act
    against that will would be to err: therefore
    I crown and miter you over yourself”
    Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio

  • #5
    Oscar Wilde
    “Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”
    Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

  • #6
    Bei Dao
    “In the world I am
    Always a stranger
    I do not understand its language
    It does not understand my silence”
    Bei Dao

  • #7
    Elyne Mitchell
    “Just then, down through the last glimmer of twilight, stepping high and free, like a cloud, a moth, a ghost in the shape of a horse — came the Silver Stallion. Wild, beautiful, and free as the wind he came, from one kingdom to another, Thowra”
    Elyne Mitchell, Silver Brumby's Daughter

  • #8
    Sylvia Plath
    “Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not-writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing — singing, laughing, learning. The responsibility, the awful responsibility of managing (profitably) 12 hours a day for 10 weeks is rather overwhelming when there is nothing, noone, to insert an exact routine into the large unfenced acres of time — which it is so easy to let drift by in soporific idling and luxurious relaxing. It is like lifting a bell jar off a securely clockwork-like functioning community, and seeing all the little busy people stop, gasp, blow up and float in the inrush, (or rather outrush,) of the rarified scheduled atmosphere — poor little frightened people, flailing impotent arms in the aimless air. That's what it feels like: getting shed of a routine. Even though one had rebelled terribly against it, even then, one feels uncomfortable when jounced out of the repetitive rut. And so with me. What to do? Where to turn? What ties, what roots? as I hang suspended in the strange thin air of back-home?”
    Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

  • #9
    Sylvia Plath
    “Mad Girl's Love Song

    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
    I lift my lids and all is born again.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
    And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
    And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
    Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I fancied you'd return the way you said,
    But I grow old and I forget your name.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
    At least when spring comes they roar back again.
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)”
    Sylvia Plath

  • #10
    Hermann Hesse
    “For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

    Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

    A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

    A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

    When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

    A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

    So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
    Herman Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

  • #11
    Sanober  Khan
    “your hand
    touching mine.
    this is how
    galaxies
    collide.”
    Sanober Khan

  • #12
    Toba Beta
    “The spirit finds a way to be born.
    Instinct seeks for ways to survive.”
    Toba Beta, Betelgeuse Incident: Insiden Bait Al-Jauza

  • #13
    Rumi
    “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
    and rightdoing there is a field.
    I'll meet you there.

    When the soul lies down in that grass
    the world is too full to talk about.”
    Rumi

  • #14
    Rumi
    “What you seek is seeking you.”
    Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi

  • #15
    Rumi
    “The minute I heard my first love story,
    I started looking for you, not knowing
    how blind that was.
    Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
    They're in each other all along.”
    Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi

  • #16
    Rumi
    “Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”
    Rumi

  • #17
    “I had nothing to contribute. I played no part. I was on the edge.
    Different.
    Alone.
    Everything around me, grey.
    It was the same old feeling, back again.
    I was in the middle of the group but I might as well have been a million miles away from these people.”
    Tim Relf, Stag

  • #18
    Marcus Aurelius
    “When you arise in the moring, think of what a precious privelege it is to be alive-- to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love”
    Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

  • #19
    Shel Silverstein
    “The baby bat
    Screamed out in fright,
    'Turn on the dark,
    I'm afraid of the light.”
    Shel Silverstein

  • #20
    Veronica Roth
    “You think my first instinct is to protect you. Because you're small, or a girl, or a Stiff. But you're wrong."

    He leans his face close to mine and wraps his fingers around my chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife? My skin tingles at the point of contact, like he's transmitting electricity through his skin.

    "My first instinct is to push you until you break, just to see how hard I have to press." he says, his fingers squeezing at the word break. My body tenses at the edge in his voice, so I am coiled as tight as a spring, and I forget to breathe.

    His dark eyes lifting to mine, he adds, "But I resist it."

    "Why..." I swallow hard. "Why is that your first instinct?"

    "Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up. I've seen it. It's fascinating." He releases me but doesn't pull away, his hand grazing my jaw, my neck. "Sometimes I just want to see it again. Want to see you awake.”
    Veronica Roth, Divergent

  • #21
    Audre Lorde
    A Litany for Survival

    For those of us who live at the shoreline
    standing upon the constant edges of decision
    crucial and alone
    for those of us who cannot indulge
    the passing dreams of choice
    who love in doorways coming and going
    in the hours between dawns
    looking inward and outward
    at once before and after
    seeking a now that can breed
    futures
    like bread in our children's mouths
    so their dreams will not reflect
    the death of ours:

    For those of us
    who were imprinted with fear
    like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
    learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
    for by this weapon
    this illusion of some safety to be found
    the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
    For all of us
    this instant and this triumph
    We were never meant to survive.

    And when the sun rises we are afraid
    it might not remain
    when the sun sets we are afraid
    it might not rise in the morning
    when our stomachs are full we are afraid
    of indigestion
    when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
    we may never eat again
    when we are loved we are afraid
    love will vanish
    when we are alone we are afraid
    love will never return
    and when we speak we are afraid
    our words will not be heard
    nor welcomed
    but when we are silent
    we are still afraid

    So it is better to speak
    remembering
    we were never meant to survive.”
    Audre Lorde, The Black Unicorn: Poems

  • #22
    “There is a tonic strength, in the hour of sorrow and affliction, in escaping from the world and society and getting back to the simple duties and interests we have slighted and forgotten. Our world grows smaller, but it grows dearer and greater. Simple things have a new charm for us, and we suddenly realize that we have been renouncing all that is greatest and best, in our pursuit of some phantom.”
    William George Jordan

  • #23
    Alain de Botton
    “The challenge lies in knowing how to bring this sort of day to a close. His mind has been wound to a pitch of concentration by the interactions of the office. Now there are only silence and the flashing of the unset clock on the microwave. He feels as if he had been playing a computer game which remorselessly tested his reflexes, only to have its plug suddenly pulled from the wall. He is impatient and restless, but simultaneously exhausted and fragile. He is in no state to engage with anything significant. It is of course impossible to read, for a sincere book would demand not only time, but also a clear emotional lawn around the text in which associations and anxieties could emerge and be disentangled. He will perhaps only ever do one thing well in his life.

    For this particular combination of tiredness and nervous energy, the sole workable solution is wine. Office civilisation could not be feasible without the hard take-offs and landings effected by coffee and alcohol.”
    Alain de Botton, The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work

  • #24
    Theodore Roosevelt
    “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
    Theodore Roosevelt

  • #25
    Charles Haddon Spurgeon
    “If you will tell me when God permits a Christian to lay aside his armour, I will tell you when Satan has left off temptation. Like the old knights in war time, we must sleep with helmet and breastplate buckled on, for the arch-deceiver will seize our first unguarded hour to make us his prey. The Lord keep us watchful in all seasons, and give us a final escape from the jaw of the lion and the paw of the bear.”
    Charles H. Spurgeon, Morning and Evening, Based on the English Standard Version

  • #26
    Augusten Burroughs
    “I'm lonely. And I'm lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.”
    Augusten Burroughs, Dry

  • #27
    Dorothy Parker
    Inventory:

    "Four be the things I am wiser to know:
    Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
    Four be the things I'd been better without:
    Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
    Three be the things I shall never attain:
    Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
    Three be the things I shall have till I die:
    Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.”
    Dorothy Parker, The Complete Poems of Dorothy Parker

  • #28
    Jandy Nelson
    “grief is a house
    where the chairs
    have forgotten how to hold us
    the mirrors how to reflect us
    the walls how to contain us

    grief is a house that disappears
    each time someone knocks at the door
    or rings the bell
    a house that blows into the air
    at the slightest gust
    that buries itself deep in the ground
    while everyone is sleeping

    grief is a house where no one can protect you
    where the younger sister
    will grow older than the older one
    where the doors
    no longer let you in
    or out”
    Jandy Nelson, The Sky Is Everywhere

  • #29
    Edna St. Vincent Millay
    Time Does Not Bring Relief

    Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
    Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
    I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
    I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
    The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
    And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
    But last year’s bitter loving must remain
    Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
    There are a hundred places where I fear
    To go,—so with his memory they brim.
    And entering with relief some quiet place
    Where never fell his foot or shone his face
    I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
    And so stand stricken, so remembering him.”
    Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems

  • #30
    Khaled Hosseini
    “That same night, I wrote my first short story. It took me thirty minutes. It was a dark little tale about a man who found a magic cup and learned that if he wept into the cup, his tears turned into pearls. But even though he had always been poor, he was a happy man and rarely shed a tear. So he found ways to make himself sad so that his tears could make him rich. As the pearls piled up, so did his greed grow. The story ended with the man sitting on a mountain of pearls, knife in hand, weeping helplessly into the cup with his beloved wife's slain body in his arms.”
    Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner



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