Quotes About Aspiration

We reach out with our hands Brush away the clouds and pirce the sky To grab the moon and mars But we still can't reach the truth

Oh, all of us dream That we are flying the skies With our eyes open

Want! You must want something. What do you want?

You boys know what tropism is, it's what makes a plant grow toward the light. Everything aspires to the light. You don't have to chase down a fly to get rid of it—you just darken the room, leave a crack of light in a window, and out he goes. Works every time. We all have that instinct, that aspiration. Science can't—what was your word? dim?—science can't dim that. All science can do is turn out the false lights so the true light can get us home.

We're never too old for dreams.

Look the stars are out. Don't you wish you could reach out and pick them like flowers?" "I hadn't thought of it." "Life. That's the way life is to me, Howard. You keep picking things until you get the one thing that really matters. Tell me about your great love.

What we think we lack determines what we will become in life.

ambition on a beer budget.

even though, as children, we hear our parents complaining every night about their bosses or co-workers, it doesn't put us off the world of work. We think it will be different for us.

If a girl wants to grow up to be a cowgirl, she ought to be able to do it, or else this world ain't worth living in.

dreams don't come true, dreams are true.

One shouldnt ask oneself how a person flies or why, but simply start flying.

in desperate need of an infusion of a sense of the possible.

As you enter positions of trust and power, dream a little before you think.

I dream a dream that dreams back at me

How come it can't fly no better than a chicken? Too much tail. All that jewelry weighs it down. Like vanity. Wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.

I'm me, she whispered. Me Nel didn't know quite what she meant, but on the other hand she knew exactly what she meant. I'm me. I'm not their daughter. I'm not Nel. I'm me. Me. Every time she said the word me there was a gathering in her like power, like joy, like fear. Back in bed with her discovery, she stared out the window at the dark leaves of the horse chestnut. Me, she murmured. And then, sinking deeper into the quilts, I want... I want to be... wonderful. Oh, Jesus, make me wonderful.

What you want to be when you grow up?" Thomas turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door. "A man," he said and left.

How did it feel Bad. Real bad. That's good. That it made you feel bad. I'm glad. How come? It means you're not a liar. You are deep, Thomas. Frank smiled. What you want to be when you grow up? Thomas turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door. A man, he said and left.

She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they could not have it

If you find a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.

But looking at it she saw that it never was the flesh and blood figure of her dreams. Just something she had grabbed up to drape her dreams over.

She spent her days, her tendril, sap-green days, walking up and down, up and down, her head jerking to the beat of a drummer so distant only she could hear. Elbows bent, hands on shoulders, she flailed her arms like a bird in an eternal, grotesquely futile effort to fly.

But where is the brilliant research, the enlightening books, the masterpieces I used to dream of producing? Nowhere. Instead I write notes about the shortcomings of others. Easy. So easy. What about my own?