Quotes About Life

But come here, fear I am alive and you are so afraid of dying

Maybe it is the thunders who breathed life into my body. They are forever wanting to lift me high and carry me away. -Prodigal Daughters (Kimberly Wesnaut)

You took me once to an older part of earth I'd never seen— where monsters were born and killed. They sacrificed everything and nothing for a taste of this life.

Emerging from a story, a poem, the Earth, a time in history, or from the body of our mothers is sometimes explosive, chaotic, frightening, yet always awe-inspiring and humbling. We can use the energy to create fresh structures, or we can destroy or be destroyed. The energy can have power over us or empower us, and even what is destructive might clear the debris so that fresh life can emerge from embers or ashes.

Poet Warrior gave birth to two children And acquired more children along the way Through association, marriage, and love. There were more and more story bringers In her world. They became her fiercest teachers Of how there is no end to love And of how it plants itself Deeper than earth Or sky.

Untitled Either a snail's moist web of moonlight, or someone's hot breath at four a.m. when the night has been too much, has eaten you whole. This is my life. It has been sifted through the bones of my body, through blood. It is all that I have.

Time and how are the mysterious elements of any life.

Each human is a complex, contradictory story. Some stories within us have been unfolding for years, others are trembling with fresh life as they peek above the horizon. Each is a zigzag of emotional design and ancestral architecture. All the stories in the earth's mind are connected.

Or maybe you are my own life scheming desperately to climb back in.

And we go on, keep giving birth and watch ourselves die, over and over. And the ground spinning beneath us goes on talking.

Forever will be a day like this.

They lived and laughed and loved and left

Whoever's reading this, if anyone is reading it: does it matter that our old selves are lost to us as surely as the past is lost, or is it enough to know yes we lived then, and we are living now, and the connection must be there? Like a river hundreds of miles long exists both at its source and at its mouth, simultaneously?

The ideal art, the noblest of art: working with the complexities of life, refusing to simplify, to overcome doubt.

You wake up one morning, those years are gone. There's a comfort in this fact perhaps. I want to think that there must be comfort in all facts we can't alter.

Fiction that adds up, that suggests a logical consistency, or an explanation of some kind, is surely second-rate fiction; for the truth of life is its mystery.

There is an hour when you realize: here is what you have been given. More than this, you won't receive. And what this is, what your life has come to, will be taken from you. In time.

Like a flame is real enough, isn't it, while it's burning?-even if there's a time it goes out?

Time is the element in which we exist... We are either borne along by it or drowned in it.

Dear girl! Life is addictive. Yet we must live.

The denial of language is a suicidal one and we pay for it with our own lives.

The novel is perhaps the highest art form because it so closely resembles life: it is about human relationships. It's technique, page by page, resembles our technique of living day by day--a way of relating .

There was a Greek philosopher who taught that, of all things, not to have been born is the sweetest state. But I believe sleep is the sweetest state. You're dead, yet alive. There's no sensation so exquisite.

I can entertain the proposition that life is a metaphor for boxing-for one of those bouts that go on and on, round following round, jabs, missed punches, clinches, nothing determined, again the bell and again and you and your opponent so evenly matched it's impossible to see your opponent is you …