Quotes About Appreciation

Do some little, special thing for yourself each day. Put a candle on the table, set out a bowl of fruit, put a flower by your sink, look at the stars, take a walk, and so on.

Since when was genius found respectable?

The exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most princely thing!

I remember, when I was a child and wrote poems in little clasped books, I used to kiss the books and put them away tenderly because I had been happy near them, and take them out by turns when I was going from home, to cheer them by the change of air and the pleasure of the new place. This, not for the sake of the verses written in them, and not for the sake of writing more verses in them, but from pure gratitude.

Therefore to this dog will I,Tenderly not scornfully,Render praise and favor.

The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you're weary -- or a stool. To stumble over and vex you... curse that stool! Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this... that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps.

I think of thee!-my thoughts do twine and bud About thee, as wild vines, about a tree... Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood I will not have my thoughts instead of thee Who art dearer, better!

Our Balzac should be flattered beyond measure by my thinking of him at all. Which I did, but of you more.

To-day Mr. Poe sent me a volume containing his poems and tales collected, so now I must write and thank him for his dedication. What is to be said, I wonder, when a man calls you the 'noblest of your sex'? 'Sir, you are the most discerning of yours.' Were you thanked for the garden ticket yesterday? No, everybody was ungrateful, down to Flush, who drinks day by day out of his new purple cup, and had it properly explained how you gave it to

For those who are still nearer to me, I have no heart to speak of them, loving them as I do and must to the end, whatever that end may be; but my dearest sisters write often to me — never let me miss their affection. I am quite well again, and strong, and Robert and I go out after tea in a wandering walk to sit in the Loggia and look at the Perseus, or, better still, at the divine sunsets on the Arno, turning it to pure gold under the bridges.

Robert is a warm admirer of Balzac and has read most of his books, but certainly — oh certainly — he does not in a general way appreciate our French people quite with our warmth; he takes too high a standard, I tell him, and won't listen to a story for a story's sake.

Them as work hardest get no respect for it – women, ranch hands, sharecroppers, factory help, domestics – and them as spend all their time talking about how hard they work have no idea what an honest day's labor for nary enough pay to put beans in your family's bellies is all about.

Being a growed woman, it turned out, was harder work than it looked. But that's a thing, too, ain't it? Them as work hardest get no respect for it—women, ranch hands, sharecroppers, factory help, domestics—and them as spend all their time talking about how hard they work have no idea what an honest day's labor for nary enough pay to put beans in your family's bellies is all about.

It's hard not to like someone who's genuinely interested in you. Or genuinely interested in things, in general.

A clean jumpsuit is like a personal favor from God.

Some things he had never managed to become jaded to, and the tenuous beauty of the world was one of those.

I'm flattered to find out I'm a topic of conversation anywhere. I'm a tugboat engineer.

There's nothing like being annoyed by different sentiences to make you really appreciate your own.

Well, anyway, her death changed our lives for the better, because it brought a kind of awareness, a specific sense of purpose and appreciation we hadn't had before. Would I trade that in order to have her back? In a fraction of a millisecond. But I won't ever have her back. So I have taken this, as her great gift to us. But. Do I block her out? Never. Do I think of her? Always. In some part of my brain, I think of her every single moment of every single day.

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music ... some intimate, low-voiced and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings.

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

But happiness, fleeting by nature, is often savored only after it has flown.

He accorded his art the highest respect, that of never taking it for granted. Always, as long as he lived, he tried to learn more, in order to serve it better.