Quotes About Hope

He'd spent too long being disappointed by the world—he'd spent so many years pining for something like this, some proof that the real world wasn't the only world, and coping with the overwhelming evidence that it in fact was. He wasn't going to be suckered in just like that. It was like finding a clue that somebody you'd buried and mourned wasn't really dead after all.

It wasn't time yet. You'll find it again, if you look hard enough.

She still had her bad days, no question, when the black dog of depression sniffed her out and settled its crushing weight on her chest and breathed its pungent dog breath in her face.

They had a lead, a slim one, but it was a stretch to call it an adventure. It wasn't much to hang a quest on. They were trotting along in search of they didn't even really know what, and there was no way to speed up the process, if there even was a process. It was quixotic, was what it was. Not even that, it was sub-quixotic. My kingdom for a windmill to tilt at.

Whatever was coming next would come.

Nothing a recovering addict likes more than a tale of how bad it had been in the old days, and how low a fellow addict had sunk.

It was pretty clear to him now that if she'd ever loved him, back then, it wasn't just the person he was, it was for the person that might one day become. Maybe that's who he was now.

What is the point of magic if we can't fix real problems?

I hope," she said, "that you don't think you're going to keep me here with bacon." "Not

His molten anger and grief were cooling into a glossy protective coating, a hard transparent lacquer of uncaring. If he couldn't go back, he would just have to do things differently going forward. He felt how infinitely safer and more sound this attitude was. The trick was just not wanting anything. That was power. That was courage: the courage not to love anyone or hope for anything.

Pushkin could cry hot tears, and he who can weep can hope. "I want to live, so that I may think and suffer," he says; and it seems as if the word "to suffer," which is so beautiful in the poem, just fell in accidentally, because there was no better rhyme in Russian for "to die.

Nu ne îndrept?m spre Dumnezeu decât pentru a ob?ine imposibilul.

Sempre a mesma coisa. Ora uma gota de esperança que cintila, depois um mar de desespero que se desencadeia, e sempre a dor, sempre a dor, sempre o desespero, sempre a mesma coisa.

Din orice situatie exista o iesire

I ask only one thing: I ask the right to hope and suffer as I do now; but if even that is impossible, command me to disappear and I will do it. -Vronsky

Even in a gleefully negative comic, there is optimism, although it's slightly hidden: It comes out through a comic character's sheer tenacity. He keeps going and trying to find some sort of fulfillment regardless of his perpetual failure record. That's a form of hope, a form of optimism. Really hokey I know, but it's true.

The magnitude of life is overwhelming. Angels are here to help us take it peace by peace.

I didn't think [Ella Enchanted] would get published. Everything I'd written till then had been rejected. If it was published, I thought it might sell a few thousand copies and go out of print. I thought if I was lucky I could write more books and get them published, too. I still pinch myself over the way things have worked out.

Christ, will I ever find someone who is not crying inside?

Love will save every life it comes in contact with.

Among the many strange servilities mistaken for pieties, one of the least lovely is that which hopes to flatter God by despising the world, and vilifying human nature.

Who believes in Aslan nowadays?

As long as what you are afraid of is something evil, you may still hope that the good may come to your rescue. But suppose you struggle through to the good and find that it also is dreadful? How if food itself turns out to be the very thing you can't eat, and home the very place you can't live, and your very comforter the person who makes you uncomfortable? Then, indeed, there is no rescue possible: the last card has been played.

At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of the morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.