Twilight is the hour I love,′ he told her, ’the hour where nothing is quite itself, all things teetering at the edges of their names. Here I can be alone and a stranger to myself.
Beneath all of these addictions is this disease, this control disease which is the mark of our society.
Feelings are like a color chart that God has given us.
No gentleman ever discusses any relationship with a lady.
If God is in a life, it doesn’t have to be big to be happy and to be important in His kingdom.
My only hope to receive love is to let you see who I am, then I may believe you.
I’ve seen batting all over the world. And in other countries too.
What happens is that people who are very religious but who are not in touch with reality, cannot be spiritual.
We never look at the grass, though it is ubiquitous. If it’s left alone to shake its hair loose it will produce tiny tassels and flowers, miniature and beautiful, that I’d never noticed before. Beauty is so often size and commotion for us, and fancy labels, that the subterfuge of loveliness all around us goes unseen.
He skims over the sea weeping, the last winged man, salt water falling to salt water. And though he tries to flee his tears, the sea itself is all the tears of those who’ve ever wept. Even the sea, even the sundering sea will not set the sad poet apart, for the country of sorrows is the size of the heart.
Beyond the stars you see are other stars, stars beyond stars,′ she told him, ’and all are dreams, like shoals of fish in the oceans of the night.
He went to sleep as soon as they’d gone, waking in the middle of the night and walking outside into a sky whose stars hung so low he felt he strolled among them and he could see indeed, so clear the air, the very flames of their inner workings.
It may seem an easy task to disregard a secret but secrets are like splinters beneath the flesh, the infection spreads and spreads and then the limb turns gangrenous and must be sawn away, all for the sake of a sliver of wood.
He thinks he will drown as the memories flood back, he cannot breathe, the lock is breached and his lungs are filled too bursting. But memories are seldom fatal.
Who knows how long he might have stayed in that city, cozy, dousing his guilt with wine, cauterizing it with tobacco, had the city remained static. But keep characters in propinquity long enough and a story will always develop a plot.
Reading is the strangest art. Your eye takes a shape, turns it into music, then story, then spirit, so a curl of ink laid long ago by a sliver of reed can become, a thousand years later, your own breath.
Our tremendous drive for social acceptance and toward conformity in our time is causing us to train our children to be a generation of young liars who do not even realise they are lying. We train our children to be subtly dishonest almost from the crib. “Shh... don’t cry in front of all these people.
Each and every one of you has a vision or a dream to live out. But God doesn’t expect you to do it in your ability.
What if the goal wasn’t to win an argument but to win a friend?
With a sense of fulfillment stronger even than the sating of his hunger that morning, for he’d been starved of books much longer than of food, Pico joined the browsers. Inhaling the odor of mildewed hide as if he’d entered a confectionery, fondling the bindings of stippled leather or buckled cloth, running his fingers across the raised letters of the titles as though blind, for a moment he wished he’d saved the coin to buy a book, then giggled at his folly.