Quotes About Hope

AÅŸ suferi mai mult dac? aÅŸ fi respins. Iar eu vreau s? înving întotdeauna. De aceea m? ar?t retras, dispreÅ£uitor. N?d?jduiesc într-un timp când munca m? va în?lÅ£a destul ca s? atrag privirile. SuferinÅ£ele mele - pân? atunci - nu le va cunoaÅŸte nimeni.

My religion: Very seldom do I feel a need for the presence of God. I don't pray and I don't know how to pray. When I enter a church, I try to pray, but I can't tell if I succeed or not. But often I have religious "attacks": the desire for isolation, for contemplation far from other people. Despair. The desire (and the hope) for asceticism.

Tu ÅŸtii foarte bine ce vreau s? spun, repetase Åžtefan. Poate mai exist? ÅŸi altceva în afar? de dragoste. Poate exist? undeva o posibilitate deschis? miracolelor, un mister ireductibil, un secret pe care nu izbutim înc? s?-l descifr?m.

Suferim ce suferim, È™i într-o bun? zi simÈ›im c? nu mai putem suferi, È™i iubim din nou ViaÈ›a È™i ne reîntoarcem de unde am plecat...

Cred c? cel mai mare p?cat contra umanit??ii este triste?ea disperat? ridicat? ca valoare suprem? a spiritualit??ii

The 'terror of history,' for me, is the feeling experienced by a man who is no longer religious, who therefore has no hope of finding any ultimate meaning in the drama of history, and who must undergo the crimes of history without grasping the meaning of them.

In exile, the road home lies through language, through dreams.

Îmi era peste putin?? s? cred c? Ileana va mai putea iubi vreodat?. M? îndoiesc dac? voi mai putea iubi eu...Dar viaÈ›a curge totuÈ™i înainte. ?i m? sperie întunericul în care s-a topit Ileana, viaÈ›a asta, necunoscut? mie, care o înghite...

It bothered me in a kind of Charles Manson way to have a brown smear of blood on my wall but I also liked it because every time I looked at it I was reminded that I was, at that very moment, not bleeding from my face. And those are powerful words of hope, really.

She says isn't it funny how every second, every minute, every day, month, year, is accounted for, capable of being named—when time, or life, is so unwieldy, so intangible and slippery? This makes her feel compassion toward the people who invented the concept of "telling time." How hopeful, she says. How beautifully futile. How perfectly human.

In the airport we hugged each other all at once, a team huddle but with nothing but a Hail Mary left in our playbook. We'd been through all of this before. We loved each other. We fought for each other. When worlds collapsed we were buried in the rubble together and when we were dug out of the rubble and rescued we all celebrated together.

W]hat makes a tragedy bearable and unbearable is the same thing—which is that life goes on.

I don't know now why I let her believe otherwise, but someday, perhaps, it will be clear.

If you lose your mind can you find your mind again? Of course you can. That's life!

My mother was so confident of being rescued in life, one way or another or another.

We drank our coffee and talked a little bit more about practical things. Natalie came over and asked me if I knew what the trees were called. I said no. She told me they were jacarandas. She said one March two years ago she was feeling suicidal. She had planned to step in front of a bus. Then she looked at the jacaranda tree and changed her mind. You decided to hang yourself from it instead? I said.

I willed my hands to stop trembling and ruffled my hair a bit and prayed to a God I only half believed in. Why are we always told that God will answer our prayers if we believe in Him? Why can't He ever make the first move?

La llibertat és bona, diu. És millor que l'esclavitud. I el perdó és bo, millor que la revenja. I l'esperança cap a allò que és desconegut és bona, millor que l'odi al que és conegut.

She says isn't it funny how every second, every minute, every day, month, year, is accounted for, capable of being named - when time, or life, is so unwieldy, so intangible and slippery? This makes her feel compassion towards the people who invented the concept of telling time. How hopeful, she says. How beautifully futile. How perfectly human.

Stuff was happening. Even in Half-a-Life. Little things, but it all added up to something big. To our lives. It was happening all along. These were our lives. This was it. My mom was hanging onto the lives, the recorded lives, of these women. We might escape, but what if we didn't? What if we lived in Half-a-Life all our lives, poor, lonely, proud, happy? If we did, we did. These were our lives. If we couldn't escape them, we'd have to live them.

All we women have are our dreams—so of course we are dreamers.

I stood there, like always, like forever it seemed, in the middle of the road waiting for something or someone to retrieve me, God or a parent or my husband or any of those things or people or ideas or words that by their definition promised love.

I sat on my Dad's bed and flipped through the page after empty page. No stamps. No exotic locales. No travel-worn smudges or creases. Just the ID information and my mother's black and white photo which if it where used in a psychology textbook on the meaning of facial expressions would be labelled: Obscenely, heartbreakingly hopeful

When I was living alone in Montreal, heartbroken over a lost love, she sent me a quote from Paul Valéry. One word per letter, thought, so it took me months to figure out. Breath, dreams, silence, invincible calm... you will triumph.