Quotes About Journey

Jean M. Auel

My father always says one thing leads to another. It certainly does. I started out to buy a friend a birthday present, and I end up trying to get a factory to go with it....

Je suis venu vers vous sans savoir mon dessein : Mon amour m'entraînait ; et je venais peut-être Pour me chercher moi-même, et pour me reconnaître.

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That's the past - or perhaps the future. And you know that there is no past, no future, there is only this blackness, changing faintly, slowly, but always the same.

A vague procession of towns all exactly alike, a vague procession of men also exactly alike. One can drift like that for a long time, she found, carefully hiding the fact that this wasn't what one had expected of life. Not in the very least.

We thread our way through a moving forest of ice-cream cones and crimson thighs.

I packed everything I had into the same suitcase I had brought with me. I was leaving the city with about as much stuff as I had arrived with. But I had learned a lot - about myself and other people.

She must find a boat and sail in it. No guarantee of shore. Only a conviction that what she wanted could exist, if she dared to find it.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home--they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space.

Books and doors are the same thing. You open them, and you go through into another world.

I've always tried to make a home for myself, but I have not felt at home in myself. I've worked hard at being the hero of my own life. But every time I checked the register of displaced persons, I was still on it. I didn't know how to belong. Longing? Yes. Belonging? No.

I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning, never stops. The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance.

No emotion is the final one.

the buddhists say there are 149 ways to god. i'm not looking for god, only for myself, and that is far more complicated.

Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle.

Although wherever you are going is always in front of you, there is no such thing as straight ahead.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm.

I noticed a woman whose face was a sea voyage I had not the courage to attempt.

I keep telling this story - different people, different places, different times - but always you, always me, always this story, because a story is a tight rope between two worlds.

Wherever love is, I want to be, I will follow it as surely as the land-locked salmon finds the sea.

The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calendar, the wrinkles and lines of the body.

Life was a pre-death experience.

Loneliness isn't about being by yourself. That's fine, right and good, desirable in many ways. Loneliness is about finding a landing-place, or not, and knowing that, whatever you do, you can go back there. The opposite of loneliness isn't company, it's return. A place to return.