Quotes About Journey

A novelist is a failed short story writer, and a short story writer is a failed poet.

Man the sum of his climatic experiences

here it is it was right here all the time was it come on I got up and followed we went up the hill the crickets hushing before us its funny how you can sit down and drop something and have to hunt all around for it the gray it was gray with dew slanting up into the gray sky then the trees beyond damn that honeysuckle I wish it would stop you used to like it we

But Uncle Gavin says it don't take many words to tell the sum of any human experience; that somebody has already done it in eight: He was born, he suffered and he died.

Meet Mrs. Bundren, he says.

They travelled crosstown now; the cab could rush fast down each block of the continuous alley, pausing only at the intersections where, to the right, canyonniched, the rumor of Grandlieu Street swelled and then faded in repetitive and indistinguishable turmoil, flicking on and past as though the cab ran along the rimless periphery of a ghostly wheel spoked with light and sound.

You've been running a long time, not to've got any further off than mealtime

Meet Mrs. Bundren

You cannot swim for new horizons unless you have courage to lose sight of the shore.

Well, a man cant keep on going ashore anywhere, let alone Europe, all his life without getting ravaged now and then." "Good God," Monckton said. "I should hope not.

He went on down the hill toward the dark woods within which the liquid silver voices of the birds called unceasing- the rapid and urgent beating o the urgent and quiring heart of the late spring night. He did not look back.

as he strode on, moving almost as fast as a smaller man could have trotted, his body breasting the air her body had vacated, his eyes touching the objects—post and tree and field and house and hill—her eyes had lost.

Jobb felÅ'l utcai lámpák sora menetelt...

Surfing, to begin with, was not a "sport." It was a "path." And the more you poured into it, the more you got back from it—he

he chose, not the disquieting road to serenity, but the serenely narrow path to eventual and total derangement.

He was wishing the past was a place you could backtrack to, take a sideroad you'd walked hurriedly past, wake somebody from a bad dream he was having.

Somewhere, deep within her, surfaces a tiny clockwork submarine. There are times when you can only take the next step. And then another.

I have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with time travelling. —H. G. WELLS

era como si Dios revocara la ley de gravedad cuando tienes que cargar una maleta pesada por un corredor de aeropuerto de diez manzanas de largo.

Somos manchas vivas de aceite empujadas por pasillos de sombra

It had always felt to me as though Washington, D.C., to Boston was one span of stuff. You never really leave Springsteenland, you're just in this unbroken highway and strip-mall landscape.

You'll get back to where you came from.

Caminaron juntos, como dos universos distintos de experiencias y sentimientos, incapaces de comunicarse.

ÎnÈ›elese deodat? plictiseala acestei vieÈ›i unde fiecare poteca era o improvizaÈ›ie, iar o buna parte din viata diurna È›i-o petreceai urm?rindu-È›i piciorele