Quotes About Resilience

She starts to get used to being sacrificed

we can laugh at it sorrowfully

Okay, I have to flee the storm again. Or I could stay.

If I drop both swords and rip off the blindfold, I still can't leave, for I can't leave this world except internally.

Don't ever speak to me from ecstasy, my life is broken.

Billions hide me before I can arise on my golden wings or something

I want to say something subtle, but I can't. It's that, now that no one loves me, I don't mind.

How much have you suffered? It isn't just, is it? No it's not

I will do it and do it again; I will never apologize. Why should I be sorry?

How much anguish can you tolerate?

What I love is one foot in front of another. South-south-west and down the contours. I go slipping between Black Ridge and White Horse Hill into a bowl of the moor where echoes can't get out listen a lark spinning around one note splitting and mending it and I find you in the reeds, a trickle coming out of a bark, a foal of a river

having had the gleam taken out of her to the point where she resembles twilight

it's a pitiable likeness of clear running struggling to keep up with what's already gone

being dragged along crippled over things as if broken-winged

not many of us left not much movement in the blackening lanes among a few low trees little flocks of orchids in the ditches nobody cares

very nearly anonymous now having recently turned five thousand with the same wedge of yearning lodged in my chest as ever and getting accustomed to surviving like a bramble very good at growing anywhere you ought to praise me for this trailing bloom

it makes me shiver like a dead soldier returning his empty clothes to his bride but she's married someone else

Sometimes when almost everything is wrong, one thing is so right you would do it all again.

Life plots elegantly.

We are taught to think ourselves ugly. Eyes are an assaulted sense. We are taught to behave by spankings and whippings. Touch is an assaulted sense. We are taught we should not smell, or we smell wrong. Smell is an assaulted sense. We listen to songs that call us 'hos and tell us how to give blow jobs. Hearing is an assaulted sense. Taste, not so much.

What I liked least about the Plantation Club? They plastered caricatures of us, drawings of darkies with protruding lips and gawking eyes on every matchbook, napkin, menu, and newspaper advertisement associated with or in the Plantation Club. Why? I suspect they hoped their filthy-as-homemade-sin visual lies would inoculate white folk from the shock of Black beauty. That left me, and many of the rest of the entertainers, exodusing for the inner sanctum of drunk.

Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.

This is just a temporary hell, not a permanent one

Loss could be used as a measure of beauty in a woman.