Quotes About Fragile

Parents need all the help they can get. The strongest as well as the most fragile family requires a vital network of social supports.

The memories of men are too frail a thread to hang history from.

Hope can be the most wonderful thing in the world or it can crush your heart like an eggshell.

Spring is like a perhaps hand

As far as paintings go, I always think about what it's like to move them and hang them up and hope they don't drop. To me, that seems like a big gamble, but that comes from me not being a painter.

For a male person bric-a-brac hunting is about as robust a business as making doll-clothes.

The imagination is of so delicate a texture that even words wound it.

You realize that life is short and fragile; and when you are facing walls of water, you understand your own mortality can change and how quickly things could change.

Dreams are fragile. Reality is a clumsy postman.

The little broken doll was no more.

What they had felt as fragile as a floating dandelion seed rising through the hot summer air. Matt had no idea where it would go.

A small parish is a fragile ecology.

How fragile we are, between the few good moments.

The trouble with bubbles is, they burst.

It is as if, even within the privacy of our own minds, we are afraid to criticize her. We are protecting the image of mother inside, protecting our fragile relationship with her by denying anything that might unsettle it, and protecting ourselves from the disappointment, anger, and pain that we've kept out of consciousness.

Besides, faith is a fickle, fragile thing: it stumbles, recovers, grows stronger, cracks. And is lost. Belief can never be trusted.

M?su p?rliec?bas ir gaistošas un trauslas, pat t?s, ko uzskat?m par visstingr?kaj?m. T?pat ir ar m?su j?t?m. Mums nevajadz?tu sev uztic?ties.

I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility

lady through whose profound and fragile lips the sweet small clumsy feet of April came into the ragged meadow of my soul.

For the novelist or poet, for the scientist or artist, the question is not where do ideas come from, the question is how they come. The how is the mystery. The how is fragile.

Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints Of tentative and half-soiled tints

No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity

She clutched her manuscript, carrying it tenderly through the crowd, like a live thing that had been hurt.