Quotes About Recognition

Strong women can be so underappreciated unless you're screaming for their help.

I recognize the classic story elements from my own life. A family legacy of alcoholism. A parent who was a chronic drunk, another parent who was a chronic enabler. Hitting that awkward, anxious phase of high school, not knowing who I was or where I belonged—and consequently tossing back a beer at that party, or stealing a shot of my parents' liquor before boarding the school bus. That magical melting feeling that immediately followed. That sense of almost primal recognition.

MY PAIN IS NAMED

Maybe Stoney has a thing for strays. Or maybe, like most bartenders, he recognizes a lost soul when he sees one.

Stop looking at me like that. Sorry, I just wanted to savor the moment, Mom replied. What moment? I asked. You're in first place, she said, and then began washing the windows.

Alfredo felt a pang, having learned long ago that not everybody saw animals for who they truly were, and all lives were poorer as a result.

I never know whether to thank Will Smith or hit him.

Thank you, Your Honor." Bennie

mine. "Oh, I mean that as a compliment

you very much, and now I'll take

When she reaches the ground, she looks from the old woman to me. A moment of confusion. Then recognition. I know her too, because I've seen traces of her in my face in the mirror. My mother. My a-ma.

Danseuse routine and my fame grew. I could walk into a

recommended to us because he sees lots of

It is always better to let them (shaman and priest) take credit for a good outcome. Do you understand?

She'd be doing it strictly out of love for the craft—not for the claps that came with.

If you made mistakes, you recognize them. As I told you, there are times when the seeking counts more than the finding.

We are four worthy orphans with a no-nonsense nanny. Like Mary Poppins? suggested the man, with a pleased look of recognition. Not one bit like that fly-by-night woman, Nanny said with a sniff. It almost gives me diabetes just to think of her: all those disgusting spoonfuls of sugar!

It's a funny thing about names, how they become a part of someone.

He had seen a birthday party, with one child singled out and celebrated on his day, so that now he understood the joy of being an individual, special and unique and proud.

Mama, what is this?" she asked suddenly, reaching into the grass at the foot of the steps. Mama looked. She gasped. "Oh, my God," she said. Annemarie picked it up. She recognized it now, knew what it was. It was the packet that Peter had given to Mr. Rosen. "Mr. Rosen tripped on the step, remember? It must have fallen from his pocket. We'll have to save it and give it back to Peter." Annemarie handed it to her mother. "Do you know what it is?

Jonas stood for a moment beside his bike, startled. It had happened again: the thing that he thought of now as "seeing beyond." This time it had been Fiona who had undergone that fleeting indescribable change. As he looked up and toward her going through the door, it happened; she changed. Actually, Jonas thought, trying to recreate it in his mind, it wasn't Fiona in her entirety. It seemed to be just her hair. And just for that flickering instant.

There is no more hollow feeling than to stand with your honor shattered at your feet while soaring public reputation wraps you in rewards. That's soul-destroying. The other way around is merely very, very irritating.

Your father calls you to his court. You need not pack. You go garbed in glorious raiment. He waits eagerly by his palace doors to welcome you, and has prepared a place at the high table, by his side, in the company of the great-souled, honored, and best-beloved.

Identity. That's my elephant. The thought came with certainty, without the question mark on the end this time. Not fame, exactly, though recognition was some kind of important cement for it. But what you were was what you did. And I did more, oh yes. If a hunger for identity were translated into, say, a hunger for food, he'd be a more fantastic glutton than Mark ever dreamed of being. Is it irrational, to want to be so much, to want so hard it hurts? And how much, then, was enough?