Quotes About Meaning

That's truth, Harvey, not what's written on a piece of paper or in blood too small to see - but the memory of how it felt being together.

And after that, and also for each word, there should be sentences that show the twists and turns of meanings—the way almost every word slips in its silvery, fishlike way, weaving this way and that, adding subtleties of nuance to itself, and then perhaps shedding them as public mood dictates.

Art is an attempt to integrate evil.

One's life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation and compassion.

When I was a child, when I was an adolescent, books saved me from despair: that convinced me that culture was the highest of values[...].

This is a team of gay dudes, isn't it?" What gave it away? The pink shirts, or half our team drooling over you?

dear kiara, The women in the shop told me that yellow rose represents friendship and red rose shows love. And the rosery is the only thing i own that i care for, its yours i'm yours C

She looks up at me with those vulnerable eyes. "What if it means something?" She asks. "What if it does?" "Promise me it won't mean anything." I lean my head back on the couch. "It won't mean anythin'." Aren't I supposed to be the guy in this scenario, laying down the no-commitment rules? "And no tongue," she adds. "Mi vida, if I kiss you, I guarantee there's gonna be tongue.

Some things aren't measured by their size, but by their importance.

Promise me it won't mean anything." I lean my head back on the couch. "It won't mean anythin'." Aren't I supposed to be the guy in this scenario, laying down the no-commitment rules? "And no tongue," she adds. " Mi vida , if I kiss you, I guarantee there's gonna be tongue.

You," Said Dr. Yavitch, "are a middle-road liberal, and you haven't the slightest idea what you want. I, being a revolutionist, know exactly what I want -- and what I want now is a drink.

For in the country, farm or town, you always know. No one's just there. There's always a source, a why and wherefore.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honour or observation.

The service we render to others is really the rent we pay for our room on this earth. It is obvious that man is himself a traveler; that the purpose of this world is not "to have and to hold" but "to give and serve." There can be no other meaning.

Not telling is just as interesting as telling I have found. Why speech, that short verbal journey from inside to outside can be excrutiating under certain circumstances is fascinating.

a sense that even if every scrap of a life were saved, thrown into a giant mound and then carefully sifted to extract all possible meaning, it would not add up to a life.

The tangible and intangible collide to cast a spell. But can a person or thing ever be stripped naked? Can we ever discover reality hiding under the meanings we give to people and things? I don't think so. And I don't think Fitzgerald thought so either. His book meditates on the necessity of fiction, not only as lies but as truths.

fiction is necessary to life - not only as books but as dreams, dreams that frame the world and give it meaning.

I know, but he must have felt it that way, that evil was an emptiness, a lack of something, not a presence.' He turned his head fast and looked at me. 'That's what desire is, isn't it? The lack of something.

nonsense can also be real

Un libro es producto de la colaboración entre el lector y el texto y, en el mejor de los casos, ese encuentro da lugar a una historia de amor como cualquier otra.

Art can speak to what falls outside theory, and it can also embody felt ideas.

Hon tog till sig en liten del av det som fanns där, bäcken bakom vårt hus, skogarna med sina stenar och sin mossa och buskvegetation, och blodroten, blåklockorna och violerna som spirade i den våta jorden varje vår. Allt detta blev henne förtroget, men fälten med sina ändlösa rader som strålade samman vid horisonten under en oändlig himmel rymde ingen riktig mening för henne. Hur älskar man så mycket tomhet? (189)

Om jag inte kände det jag känner när jag ser dig skulle du vara någon annan. Det vore hemskt. Om jag inte mindes att jag älskar dig, menar jag. (190)