Quotes About Life

But you can take the energy from others," Sonny said. "Kill here, the sky gets brighter, food tastes better. Do it enough and maybe you live forever.

So why can't we see people?" "Because they're there, and we're here. They're creating the sound, we're living in the echo. There are drivers in the cars and clerks in the stores and ladies walking dogs. Living people, doing their thing. Totally unaware that at the same moment, us dead folks are walking through an echo of their world." Brody tried to picture it, an overlap of the real and the invisible.

What was the phrase the Irish used? You want to make God laugh, you make a plan.

There was a skill to organizing your life into neatly bundled anecdotes, and he lacked it.

Everything had a sweetness these days, a golden glow like he was watching his own life in some sun-faded movie print.

Existence was a chain. Life at one end, vibrant and powerful; nothingness at the other.

knew what you meant." "Think about it, Will. That was the end. We've seen the whole span, beginning to end. Life to nothingness. We know every step of it. Every fading footfall." She paused. "And still don't really know anything, do we?

He hated clocks that ticked; every click a moment gone. Couldn't imagine sleeping in a room with one, drifting into unconsciousness to the sound of life slipping away.

Small talk wasn't his thing, and he didn't have the knack for storytelling. There was a skill to organizing your life into neatly bundled anecdotes, and he lacked it.

The problem with the best moment in your life is that every other moment is worse

Life is a raindrop

It was like meeting someone exceptional while you were married: the yank of possibility, the realization that here was another path your life could have taken.

The truth was, everything in life came down to intentions and results. Cooper's intentions in killing Peters and releasing the video had been good; the results had been a disaster. Did that make his intentions wrong? If so, that meant morality was really only a way of talking about how we wished things were. Hope, empathy, idealism—maybe they didn't matter. Maybe the only thing that counted was results.

Food's my only bag. It's my gig, my art, my life. Always has been, always will be. I'm always battling myself – the part of me that says I can and the part of me that says I can't. My greatest gift has been that the part of me that says "I can't" is always, always just a little bit louder.

If a life can be ruined in a single moment, a moment of betrayal, or violence, or ill luck, then why can a life not also be saved, be worth living, be made, by just a few pure moments of perfection?

And if I really can see the future, then what does it mean? Is there any sense in our lives if everything is already out there, just waiting to happen? For if that were so, then life would be a horrible monster indeed, with no chance of escape from fate, from destiny. It would be like reading a book, but reading it backwards, from the final chapter down to chapter one, so that the end is already known to you.

Love, sing, cry, and fight, but all the time, seek to know everything you can about the earth upon which you stand, till your time is done.

Secondly, I continued my education in a more important way, through the observation of everyone around me, because nothing is more important to learn in life than the interaction of a human being with another human being.

The binary colour of words on a page give the sense of simplicity and clarity. But life doesn't work like that. And neither should a good story. A good story ought to leave a little grey behind, I think.

She risked her life to put your mind at rest,' Evgenia said. 'How great is love!

You have life written all over you. Some people bear tragedy on their faces; loss, death, whatever it might be. But you have life.

Yet every writer worth a good-god damn knows this too, for it is graven into each of us: no one cares for beauty. Not in fiction. Not on its own, not pure, untroubled beauty; not in fiction. [...] For here is the only real difference between the life of reality and the life of fiction. Fiction only works when the beauty is tainted by pain. For fiction is not about life; it's about the troubles of life.

Monsters lurk in every culture's life blood – the history of the world is as much the history of its monsters as its angels, and who is the more fascinating: Elizabeth Bathory and her blood-bathing, or Mother Teresa and her poor? Vlad ?epe? and his impalings, or Saint Francis and his birds? I wish I could give you better answers, I really do, but monsters throng about us; they always have.

There never was a story that was happy through and through