Quotes About Meaning

Thunder Road' knows who I am and what I feel, and that is one of the consolations of art.

Unhappiness really meant something back then. Now it's just a drag, like a cold or having no money.

Thunder Road' knows who I am and what I feel, and that, in the end, is one of the consolations of art.

I try not to believe in God, of course, but sometimes things happen in music, in songs, that bring me up short, make me do a double-take.

Maybe the best thing to do with favorite films and books is to leave them be: to achieve such an exalted position means that they entered your life at exactly the right time, in precisely the right place, and those conditions can never be re-created.

Maybe the best thing to do with favourite books is to leave them be: to achieve such exalted position means that they entered your life at exactly the right time, in precisely the right place, and those conditions can never be recreated.

Love and charity share the same root word (caritas). How is that possible, when everything in our recent history suggest they cannot coexist, that they are antiethical, that if you put the two of them together in a sack they would bite and scratch and scream, until one of them is torn apart?

I know now that truth is a troubling thing. You can't drink your way to it. You can't snort your way to it. You can't fuck your way to it. You can't love your way to it. You can only let it envelop you and try to make sense of it all.

She watched her lover in silence; words would have been too big, too solid for what they had done together.

A name, she thinks, is what makes a person who they are. A name is how they know themself.

Find out who you are, and do it on purpose.

I know there is a moral to this story, but I don't know what it is.

The plural of elf is elves! What a language! What a world!

Where he saw a page of words, his friend saw the field of hesitations, black holes, and possibilities between the words. Where his friend saw dappled light, the felicity of flight, the sadness of gravity, he saw the solid form of a common sparrow.

I wanted to describe the world, because to live in an undescribed world was too lonely.

I read differently now, more painstakingly, knowing I am probably revisiting the books I love for the last time. (245)

At first Babel longed for the use of just two words: Yes and No. But he knew that just to utter a single word would be to destroy the delicate fluency of silence.

To paint a leaf, you have to sacrifice the whole landscape. It might seem like you're limiting yourself at first, but after a while you realize that having a quarter-of-an-inch of something you have a better chance of holding on to a certain feeling of the universe than if you pretended to be doing the whole sky. My mother did not choose a leaf or a head. She chose my father, and to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world.

After all, the world population of artists has exploded, almost no one is not an artist now; in turning our attention inward, so have we turned all of our hope inward, believing that meaning can be found or made there. Having cut ourselves off from all that is unknowable and that might truly fill us with awe, we can only find wonderment in our own powers of creativity.

I tried to make sense of things. Now that I think about it, I have always tried. It could be my epitaph. LEO GURSKY: HE TRIED TO MAKE SENSE.

Y entonces le dio un beso. Aquel beso era una pregunta que él deseó estar contestando durante el resto de su vida.

It's barely alive, but it is alive. More brown than green. There are parts that have withered. But still it lives, leaning always to the left. Even when I rotate it so that what faced the sun no longer faces the sun, it stubbornly leans to the left, choosing against physical need in favor of an act of creativity. I poured the rest of my water into its pot. What does it mean, anyway, to flourish?

Era normal ensartar las palabras en un hilo para guiarlas y evitar que se extraviaran por el camino hacia su destino

What I lost is, in the grand scope of things, almost... negligible. It's true that there's grief: it wakes me in a cold sweat thinking,, Who was I? What did I care about? What did I find funny sad, stupid, painful? Was I happy? All of those memories I accumulated, gone. Which one, if there could have been only one, would I have kept?