Quotes About Ambiguity

I live in the space between chaos and shape. I walk the line that continually threatens to lose its tautness under me, dropping me into the dark pit where there is no meaning. At other times the line is so wired that it lights up the soles of my feet, gradually my whole body, until I am my own beacon, and I see then the beauty of newly created worlds, a form that is not random. A new beginning.

It is not the one thing nor the other that leads to madness, but the space in between them.

We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.

Somewhere beween the swamp and the mountains. Somewhere beween fear and sex. Somewere beween God and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back worse.

I walk the line that continually threatens to lose its tautness under me, dropping me into the dark pit where there is no meaning.

At that time I could not imagine what would become of me, and I didn't care. It was not judgement day, but another morning.

Somewhere between the swamp and the mountains. Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse.

The trouble with a book is that you never know what's in it until it's too late.' I thought to myself, 'Too late for what?

It would not be the first time that Jove and Stella had covered the traces of where I began and where they ended. I liked the playfulness of the lovers' argument: who are you and who am I? Which of us is which? Liked it less when the erotic twinhood developed into forged letters and faked signatures.

For a writer, what you leave out says as much as those things you include. What lies beyond the margin of the text?

What is your story sir? I said. That is the dilemma, he replied. I do not know if I am the teller or the tale.

It is snowing. In the English language we do not know anything about the 'it' that is snowing. It might be God. Maybe not. Anyway. It. Is. Snowing.

The trouble with books is that you don't know what's in them 'till is too late

Should be great. But when have things ever worked out great? In the human dream?

Just because you can't tell what it is, doesn't mean it's not what it is.

Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently. Some people say there are true things to be found, some people say all kinds of things can be proved. I don't believe them. The only thing for certain is how complicated it all is, like string full of knots. It's all there but hard to find the beginning and impossible to fathom the end. The best you can do is admire the cat's cradle, and maybe knot it up a bit more.

The other kids stared at us whispering among themselves, but they also kept distance, as if they hadn't decided whether we were predators or prey.

Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat.

Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it anymore. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and i was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming.

Love was not something to be felt, not a particular emotion, nor yet a particular shade of feeling, it was much more like a lowering curse on the horizon, a precursor of disaster.

Aku suka menyadari betapa kerasnya buku bertahan, tidak pernah mau takluk begitu saja padaku; aku jadi terpedaya, capai, tetapi aku amat menikmati ambiguitas posisiku: mengerti tetapi tidak mengerti.

What is meant by the term existentialism? Most people who use the word would be rather embarrassed if they had to explain it, since, now that the word is all the rage, even the work of a musician or painter is being called existentialist. A gossip columnist in Clartés signs himself The Existentialist, so that by this time the word has been so stretched and has taken on so broad a meaning, that it no longer means anything at all.

The four cafés on the Boulevard Victor-Noir, shining in the night, side by side, and which are much more than café--aquariums, ships, stars or great white eyes--have lost their ambiguous charm.