Quotes About Stories

scars tell stories of who we are and what we did. A person without marks hasn't done anything.

We tell each other stories to muffle the surprise of disappointment.

in his book Achilles in Vietnam, former Veterans Affairs psychiatrist Dr. Jonathan Shay warns about what happens, to both soldiers and society, when those stories are never told. "We can never fathom the soldier's grief if we do not know the human attachment which battle nourishes and then amputates," he says. "Failure to communalize grief can imprison a person in endless swinging between rage and emotional deadness as a permanent way of being in the world.

I also worry that my reporting will become this deluge of tragedy for people, who like myself, unable or uncertain of what to do, let it wash over them. Some African journalists call it poverty porn—stories or images of intense suffering designed solely for emotional impact, but often have the effect of shutting people down rather than helping them step up.

Buster sat on the curb in front of the college, waiting for his sister to pick him up. To pass the time, he skimmed the stories of the creative writing students. One was about a wild party and the story consisted almost entirely of a detailed explanation of a drinking game called Flip 'N Chug that seemed, to Buster, to be too complicated to facilitate the simple goal of getting drunk.

His faith was no game he played. It was not a mantle to put on or be taken off as the need arose. The stories he took so literally he held dearer than his own life and he could not doubt them. Doubt would have destroyed him. I had no desire to destroy a foolish old man who suffered a fatal ignorance.

Everyone wanted to tell their stories and to know where they fit in their own fudoki. She was not that different.

Everyone had a fudoki, Small Cat knew now. Everyone had their own stories, and the stories of their families and ancestors. There were adventures and love stories, or tricks and jokes and funny things that had happened or disasters. Everyone wanted to tell the stories, and to know where they fit in their own fudokis. She was not that different.

I didn't want to travel. I didn't want to leave my family. I heard all these stories from Dad about not having Edward around when he was young, and I didn't want that to happen.

I had come to believe that there was something sacred in telling stories and telling them true.

That's very important about stories. They touch something that is human in us and is probably unchanging. Perhaps this is why the important knowledge is passed through stories. It's what holds a culture together. Culture has a story, and every person in it participates in that story. They world is made up of stories; it's not made up of facts.

New York City is a good place to come to forget your misery. So many people, so many ages and races and stories. Virtually everyone had had, was currently nursing or would have a broken heart. There were a thousand stories worse than mine.

Men tell stories," I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. "Women get on with it. For us it was a shadow war. There were no parades for us when it was over, no medals or mentions in history books. We did what we had to during the war, and when it was over, we picked up the pieces and started our lives over.

She knew the difference between fact and fiction, but she couldn't abandon her love stories.

Everyone up here had two stories : the life before and the life now. If you wanted to pray to a weirdo god or live in a school bus or marry a goose, no one in Alaska was going to say crap to you. No one cared if you had an old car on your deck, let alone a rusted fridge. Any Life that could be imagined could be lived up here.

We are stories, contained within the twenty complicated centimeters behind our eyes, lines drawn by traces left by the (re)mingling together of things in the world, and oriented toward predicting events in the future, toward the direction of increasing entropy, in a rather particular corner of this immense, chaotic universe.

The confusion between these two diverse human activities—inventing stories and following traces in order to find something—is the origin of the incomprehension and distrust of science shown by a significant part of our contemporary culture. The separation is a subtle one: the antelope hunted at dawn is not far removed from the antelope deity in that night's storytelling. The

We are stories, contained within the twenty complicated centimeters behind our eyes, lines drawn by traces left by the (re)mingling together of things in the world, and oriented toward the direction of increasing entropy, in a rather particular corner of this inmense, chaotic universe.

Câte zile f?r? rost! Pline de poveÅŸti, o groaz? de poveÅŸti întunecate. PoveÅŸti terminate, altele abia începute, înfipte-n întunecimea zilei ca o creang? moart?.

Cuántos días inútiles! Días llenos de historias, demasiadas historias turbias. Historias incompletas, apenas iniciadas e hinchadas ya como una vieja madera a la intemperie. Historias demasiado oscuras para mi. Su olor, que era el podrido olor de mi casa, me causaba cierta náusea...

Using pictures to tell stories is a technique well established in the neuroscience literature in a concept called picture superiority. Researchers have found that if you simply hear information, you will recall about 10 percent of the content. If you hear the information and see a picture, it's likely that you will retain 65 percent of the content.

STORIES ARE JUST DATA WITH A SOUL

It's the arrangement of events which makes the stories. It's throwing away, compressing, underlining. Hindsight can give structure to anything, but you have to be able to see it. Breathing, waking and sleeping: our lives are steamed and shaped into stories. Knowing that is what keeps me from going insane, and though I don't like to admit it, sometimes it's the only thing.

Tragedy whores don't feel the foundation break apart beneath their feet—the reeling blast of emptiness, though to watch them you might think so. They're voyeurs. They feed like coffin flies on drama, embroiled in virtual grief and the illusion of heartbreak. They all have stories they want to tell, insist on telling, proclaiming their link to tragedy. Emotional rubberneckers. I