Quotes About Fragility

These memories of happiness are fleeting things, reflections in a stream, glimpsed all broken for a second and then swept away in the current of grief that is our life now. I can't say that I ever feel what it felt like then, when I was happy. But sometimes something will touch the place where that feeling was, a touch as slight and swift as the brush of a moth's wing in the dark.

He did not turn. Embracing his sister, he stepped off the bank, onto the ice. He walked out into the centre, where the ice was thin. His sister's head lay on his shoulder. They stood there for a moment, as the ice groaned and cracked. Then it gave way.

I am desperate and vulnerable. ... I am always terrified.... Beauty can sometimes be so very troublesome.

The essence of man is imperfection.

It was a storm in a tea cup, but in politics we sail in paper boats.

Happiness, greatness, pride-nothing is secure, nothing keeps.

By union the smallest states thrive, by discord the greatest are destroyed.

This world's a bubble.

The clock stands still yet time does not. Even as he lies here he can feel time at work on him like a wasting disease, like the quicklime they pour on corpses. Time is gnawing away at him, devouring one by one the cells that make him up. His cells are going out like lights.

We are the great miracle of creation! But from some blows this miraculous body cannot repair itself!

Put all your eggs in one basket... the handle's going to break. Then all you've got is scrambled eggs.

He'd tended her wounds, as she had his, and knew she healed well, healed fast. His resilient, hardheaded cop. But there were parts inside that tough, disciplined body that remained fragile—perhaps always would. And those vulnerable places pulled at him to protect, to comfort, to do anything he could to spare her a bruise or blow. The vulnerability undid him even as the strength brought him pride. And the whole of her brought him love beyond the measuring of it.

the ground—she was a little thing, barely a hundred pounds—until the lack of oxygen had her going limp.

He thought of himself not as something heavy that left tracks behind it, but if anything, as a speck upon the surface of an earth too deeply asleep to notice the scratch of ant feet, the rasp of butterfly teeth, the tumbling of dust

I am now no more than a pile of blood, bone and meat that is unhappy.

Y deja de pasar así las páginas. ¿Por qué lo manejas con tanta brusquedad? –Porque… Porque si no me doy prisa se abrirá un agujero. –¿Dónde? –Entre las páginas. –Qué tontería. No hay ningún agujero entre las páginas.

Me estoy haciendo muy muy muy pequeño —dice el niño con voz ronca y medio dormida—. Me estoy haciendo muy muy muy pequeño y cayendo. —Déjate caer —le susurra él—. Yo estoy aquí para vigilarte. —¿Soy un fantasma, Simón?

No se veía como un cuerpo pesado que va dejando un rastro, sino como algo parecido a una partícula liviana sobre la superficie de una tierra demasiado dormida como para notar el rasguño de las patas de las hormigas, el mordisqueo de las mariposas, el revoloteo del polvo.

You are like a stick insect, Michaels, whose sole defence against a universe of predators is its bizarre shape. You are like a stick insect that has landed, God knows how, in the middle of a great wide flat bare concrete plain. You raise your slow fragile stick-legs one at a time, you inch about looking for something to merge with, and there is nothing. Why did you ever leave the bushes, Michaels?

Funny thing about glass. When you broke the shit up, it got pissed and bit back.

John Matthew was her well of soul, as the symphaths called it,or her pyrocant, to the vampires. Her essential weakness.

Qhuinn looking a Blay] A tear escaped from that eye . Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn't hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.

now he knew why God didn't give people superpowers. Humans were dangerous enough as it was. . .

That was the great irony. In life, everyone was a snowflake of separate and beautiful proportion, but when death came in and grabbed hold, you were left with anonymous skin and muscle and bone, all of which cooled and decayed at predictable rates.