Quotes About Experience

No mida kuradit! Lahing ei kuulu alati tugevatele ja võitma kipuvad meeldivad tüübid, sest just nemad kirjutavad pärast mälestusi.

How many people get their stories right from day to day?

Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.' He sighed and smiled sadly. 'But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories - your life, my life, old Husain's life, they're the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.

In those days, continued Ishvar, it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain. And later? Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.

Everyone underestimates their own life. Funny thing is, in the end, all our stories – your life, my life, old Husain's life, they're the same. In fact, no matter where you go in the world, there is only one important story: of youth, and loss, and yearning for redemption. So we tell the same story, over and over. Just the details are different.

this was an outstanding family subject in our real life.

And the further they go, the more they'll remember, they can take it from me.

You fellows are amazing,' the sweaty cook roared over the stoves. 'Everything happens to you only. Each time you come here, you have a new adventure story to entertain us

She did not notice that already, in her memory, those months […] of fretting and tardiness, quarrels and crooked seams, had been transmuted into something precious, to be remembered with yearning.

Klausykis sen? žmoni? patarim?. Kai užaugame, mums atrodo, kad žinome visk?. Manome, kad seniai kuoktel?j?, Metams b?gant, sukaupiame per daug išdidumo. Jis mus ir pražudo.

Literature is that which he can not read without pain, without choking on truth.

The pleasure of the text is that moment when my body pursues its own ideas—for my body does not have the same ideas as I do.

What right does my present have to speak of my past? Has my present some advantage over my past? What grace might have enlightened me? except that of passing time, or of a good cause, encountered on my way?

The other's body was divided: on one side, the body proper--skin, eyes--tender, warm; and on the other side, the voice--abrupt, reserved, subject to fits of remoteness, a voice which did not give what the body gave. Or further: on one side, the soft, warm, downy. adorable body. and on the other, the ringing, well-formed. worldly voice--always the voice.

Today there is no symbolic compensation for old age, no recognition of a specific value: wisdom, perceptiveness, experience, vision.

There is an age at which we teach what we know. Then comes another age at which we teach what we do not know; this is called research. Now perhaps comes the age of another experience: that of unlearning, of yielding to the unforeseeable change which forgetting imposes on the sedimentation of the knowledges, cultures, and beliefs we have traversed.

Is the scene always visual? It can be aural, the frame can be linguistic: I can fall in love with a sentence spoken to me: and not only because it says something which manages to touch my desire, but because of its syntactical turn (framing), which will inhabit me like a memory.

The photograph touches me if I withdraw it from its usual blah-blah: "Technique," "Reality," "Reportage," "Art," etc.: to say nothing, to shut my eyes, to allow the detail to rise of its own accord into affective consciousness.

Though each love is experienced as unique and though the subject rejects the notion of repeating it elsewhere later on, he sometimes discovers in himself a kind of diffusion of amorous desire; he then realises he is doomed to wander until he dies, from love

El placer del texto es ese momento en que mi cuerpo comienza a seguir sus propias ideas, pues mi cuerpo no tiene las mismas ideas que yo

Embarrassed and almost guilty because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion. But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?

27 de octubre Todo el mundo conjetura —así lo siento— el grado de intensidad de un duelo. Pero imposible (signos irrisorios, contradictorios) medir hasta qué punto alguien ha sido alcanzado.

The value of your travels does not hinge on how many stamps you have in your passport when you get home -- and the slow nuanced experience of a single country is always better than the hurried, superficial experience of forty countries.