Quotes About Resilience

I don't know whether I can accept things or not, Lee said I've never had a chance to try. I've always found myself with some - not less uncertain but less able to take care of uncertainty. I've had to do my weeping - alone.

I wondered why it is that some people are less affected and torn by the verities of life and death than others.

Onu bir kenara koyarken, anlad???m? söyledim yaln?zca. Ne kötüdür bilirim ama elimden bir ÅŸey gelmez. BaÅŸkas? da sana yard?m edemez. Yaln?zca geçecek diyebilirim ama sen buna inanamazs?n. Yolun aç?k olsun. Bu dönemde birbirimize tahammül edemesek de, sevgim seninle olsun.

Somewhere in the world there is defeat for everyone. Some are destroyed by defeat, and some made small and mean by victory. Greatness lives in one who triumphs equally over defeat and victory.

and the break would never come as long as fear can turn to wrath.

I suppose you think I am going to give you one of those 'You are going out into the world' speeches. Well, you are perfectly right. You are going out into the world and it is a mess, a frightened, neurotic, gibbering mess. And there isn't anyone out there to help you because all the people who are already out there are in a worse state than you are, because they have been there longer and a good number of them have given up.

Then crop failure, drought, and flood were no longer little deaths within life, but simple losses of money. And all their love was thinned with money, and all their fierceness dribbled away in interest until they were no longer farmers at all, but little shopkeepers of crops, little manufacturers who must sell before they can make.

Doc, spuse Fauna, am vazut de toate in viata mea. Crede-ma, daca ai ceva de doamna in tine, iti strici toata viata.

It is a hard thing to live any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.

All the goodness and the heroisms will rise up again, then be cut down again and rise up. It isn't that the evil thing wins — it never will — but that it doesn't die.

Here we sit," he began at last. "—broken-hearted," Pilon added rhythmically.

We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is.

To be alive at is to have scars.

Besides, as Cyrus became more military, his wife learned the only technique through which a soldier can survive. She never made herself noticeable, never spoke unless spoken to, performed what was expected and no more, and tried for no promotions. She became a rear rank private. It was much easier that way. Alice retired to the background until she was barely visible at all.

Charles is not afraid. So he could never learn anything of courage.

And the women sighed with relief, for they knew it was all right—the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.

In the wet hay of leaking barns babies were born to women who panted with pneumonia. And old people curled up in corners and died that way, so that the coroners could not straighten them. At night frantic men walked boldly to hen roosts and carried off the squawking chickens. If they were shot at, they did not run, but splashed sullenly away; and if they were hit, they sank tiredly in the mud.

He used it to haul squids and he liked a fresh breeze to blow in his face. His name was Francis Almones and he had a sad life, for he always made just a fraction less than he needed to live.

Come back with your shield or on it.

Let any gay and hopeful thing happen to a man, and some chicken goes howling to the block.

Liza with her acceptance could take care of tragedy; she had no real hope this side of Heaven.

We do know that we are cheated from birth to the overcharge on our coffins. But we survive.

It is true that we are weak and sick and quarrelsome, but if that is all we ever were, we would, millenniums ago, have disappeared from the face of the earth. A few remnants of fossilized jawbone, some broken teeth in strata of limestone, would be the only mark man would have left of his existence in the world.

In all such local tragedies time works like a damp brush on water color. The sharp edges blur, the ache goes out of it, the colors melt together, and from the many separated lines a solid gray emerges.