Quotes About Heart

hatred consumes the heart and leaves little room for love or laughter.

You deny them hope. Any man in this world, Atticus, any man who has a head and arms and legs, was born with hope in his heart. You won't find that in the Constitution, I picked that up in church somewhere. They are simple people, most of them, but that doesn't make them subhuman.

As you grew up, when you were grown, totally unknown to yourself, you confused your father with God. You never saw him as a man with a man's heart, and a man's failings—I'll grant you it may have been hard to see, he makes so few mistakes, but he makes 'em like all of us.

Then Mr. Underwood's meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men's hearts Atticus had no case.

One does not love breathing.

but in the secret's courts of man's hearts Atticus had no case. Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella Ewell opened her mouth and screamed.

I fall in love everyday, with ideas and sensations, people I see. I hold them long enough to let them go, but I keep them in my heart and in my soul.

You confused your father with God. You never saw him as a man with a man's heart, and a man's failings – I'll grant you it may have been hard to see, he makes so few mistakes, but he makes 'em like all of us. You were an emotional cripple, leaning on him, getting answers from him, assuming that your answers would always be his answers.

Summer, and he watched his children's heart break.

A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance!

Walking the path, I stop to pick up bleached bark from a tree, curled into a scroll of ancient wisdom I am unable to read. Even in my dreams I'm hiking these mountain trails expecting to find a rock that nature has shaped to remind me of a heart.

She waited for the train to pass. Then she said, I sometimes think that people's hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what's at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while.

Letters are just pieces of paper, I said. Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.

Hatred is like a long, dark shadow. Not even the person it falls upon knows where it comes from, in most cases. It is like a two-edged sword. When you cut the other person, you cut yourself. The more violently you hack at the other person, the more violently you hack at yourself. It can often be fatal. But it is not easy to dispose of. Please be careful, Mr.Okada. It is very dangerous. Once it has taken root in your heart, hatred is the most difficult think in the world to shake off.

Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That's it. That's my heart.

A strange, terrific force unlike anything I've ever experienced is sprouting in my heart, taking root there, growing. Shut up behind my rib cage, my warm heart expands and contracts independent of my will--over and over.

Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest. I put my hand on the cat's chest and felt his heart beating. The pulse was faint and fast, but his heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small body with all the restless earnestness of my own.

Time expands, then contracts, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart.

In certain areas of my life, I actively seek out solitude. Especially for someone in my line of work, solitude is, more or less, an inevitable circumstance. Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person's heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time steadily cuts away at me from the inside.

The journey I'm taking is inside me. Just like blood travels down veins, what I'm seeing is my inner self and what seems threatening is just the echo of the fear in my heart.

You said you're going far away, Tamaru said. How far away are we talking about? It's a distance that can't be measured. Like the distance that separates one person's heart from another's.

The human heart is like a night bird. Silently waiting for something, and when the time comes, it flies straight toward it.

When I was fifteen, all I wanted was to go off to some other world, a place beyond anybody's reach. A place beyond the flow of time." - But there's no place like that in this world. - Exactly. Which is why I'm living here, in this world where things are continually damaged, where the heart is fickle, where time flows past without a break.

On any given day, something claims our attention. Anything at all, inconsequential things. A rosebud, a misplaced hat, that sweater we liked as a child, an old Gene Pitney record. A parade of trivia with no place to go. Things that bump around in our consciousness for two or three days then go back to wherever they came from... to darkness. We've got all these wells dug in our hearts. While above the wells, birds flit back and forth.