Quotes About Journey

One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now.

Frances Hodgson Burnett

Everything's a story — You are a story — I am a story.

She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl

The mere fact of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession.

you are going to be sent home.... I 'm glad of it but where's HOME ?

Everything's a story. You are a story - I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story.

as the train whirled him through the mountain passes and golden plains, the man who was 'coming alive' began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply.

Everything's a story. You are a story -I am a story. - Sara Crewe

Always, I liked the infinitive 'to go.' Let's go, let's go. let's really go. 'Andare' was the first verb I learned to conjugate in Italian. 'Andiamo,' let's go, teh sound comes out at a gallop.

We are walking on the foundations of literature, up the steep, stony path in the fiery heat.

Send me out into another life lord because this one is growing faint I do not think it goes all the way.

When books go out into the world, they take on a life. Sometimes that life is a quiet and dusty one, waiting on the nether regions of library stacks. I have books of poetry like that. With others, the book's life is one of surprise because the book keeps on making its way, on it's own, into intriguing and larger spaces.

I'm reading more than ever. I've started on the left wall of the Carnegie Library and plan to read my way around the room.

In writing a life you search for the white pebbles you didn't know you dropped to define your way. When they disappear, you instinctively follow the glimmer of swamp fire to the deep woods where time and event collapse, to the original source where love flourishes still.

Travel is a journey into one's own ignorance.

Frances O'Roark Dowell

Dear Angel Juan, You used to guard my sleep like a panther biting back my pain with the edge of your teeth. You carried me into the dark dream jungle, loping past the hungry vines, crossing the shiny fish-scale river. We left my tears behind in a chiming silver pool. We left my sorrow in the muddy hollows. When I woke up you were next to me, damp and matted, your eyes hazy, trying to remember the way I clung to you, how far down we went. Was the journey too far, Angel Juan? Did we go too far?

I pounded through the houses, staggering down the hallways, falling down the steps. It was a hot streaky dawn full of insecticides, exhaust, flowers that could make you sick or fall in love. My battered Impala was still parked there on the side of the road and I wanted to lie down on the shredded seats and sleep and sleep. But I thought of the bones; I could hear them singing. They needed me to write their song.

What time are we upon and where do I belong?

Hopefully, when you are young, you discover something called love, which is really just another name for going home.

Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man and Dirk and Duck and Cherokee and Witch Baby and Slinkster Dog and Go-Go Girl and the puppies Pee Wee, Wee Wee, Teenie Wee, Tiki Tee, and Tee Pee were driving down Hollywood Boulevard on their way to the Tick Tock Tea Room for turkey platters.

On the way to Santa Cruz Dirk and Duck stopped along the coast to surf. They stopped so many times to surf and eat (they finished the avocado sandwiches in the first fifteen minutes and bought sunflower seeds, licorice, peaches, and Foster's Freeze soft ice cream along the way) that they didn't get to Santa Cruz until late that night.

walk forwards in the radiance of the past