Quotes About Paradox

Reality isn't what it used to be.

The feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy and profound peace

That is the greatness of literature, and its paradox, that in reading about fictional others we end up reading about ourselves. Sometimes this unwitting self-examination provokes smiles of recognition, while other times, . . . it provokes shudders of worry and denial. Either way, we are the wiser, we are existentially thicker.

Por qué florecía aquel loto en medio de una hoguera? ¿Por qué no se marchitaba?

A flock of sheep near the airport or a high voltage generator beside the orchard: these combinations open up my life like a wound, but they also heal it. That's why my feelings always come in twos.

Nobody comes here anymore, its too crowded

I never said most of the things I said.

If the world were perfect, it wouldn't be.

What could be poetic in a pigsty enveloped in so many curses?

Life is complex, conceptually dominated by binaries but never wholly contained by them.

How is it possible to hate something so completely and then suddenly love it so unreasonably?

Faith involves an acceptance of absurdity.

Strange inversions proliferate.

The shit is not the shit (this was Mo's mantra), the pigeon is the shit.

Cum e posibil s? fie mai uÈ™or de vorbit cu un str?in (...), È™i acesta e f?r? îndoial? paradoxul cel mai frecvent È™i mai revolt?tor al vieÈ›ii în doi, c? ne apropiem ca s? ne dep?rt?m.

It is a paradox of human dynamics, of how the progress of new ideas often rests on the survival of old ways.

In chaos there is order, and in order there lies chaos.

Hurston embodied a more or less harmonious but nevertheless problematic unity of opposites.

Americans adore me and will go on adoring me until I say something nice about them.

Istniej? my?li, którym jeste?my pos?uszni, nie znaj?c ich; s? w nas bez naszej wiedzy. Mimo ?e to spostrze?enie mo?e si? wyda? raczej paradoksem ni? prawd?, ka?dy szczery cz?owiek znajdzie na nie w ?yciu tysi?c dowodów.

ironia este însu?irea fundamental? a providen?ei

the truth can be both horrible and lovely at the same time.

Who is she? Did you know her young? What of her birth? Had she father and mother, or was she born of the conjunction of ice and sun? She burns and yet she freeze; she shows herself and then withdraws; she attracts me and repulses me; she brings me life, she gives me death; I love her and yet I hate her! I cannot live thus; let me be wholly in heaven or in hell!

Busy idleness urges us on