Quotes About Fragility

She abandoned the garden, and the mums and asters that had trusted her to see them through to the first frost hung their waterlogged heads.

during the first moments of sadness that seemed to slip in through the open window without our noticing, disturbing the rarefied atmosphere that comes with the beginning of love...

He could have broken her in two with one hand, but either she was already broken, or she wasn't going to break.

Don't be a fool, you've let yourself fall apart, the pieces have got lost, and now there's nothing left to give, you can't hide it forever, sooner or later she'll figure out the truth: you're a shell of a man, all she has to do is knock against you to find out you're empty.

You are a shell of a man, all she has to do is knock against you to find out you are empty.

There are three kinds of souls, three kinds of prayers. One: I am a bow in your hands, Lord. Draw me lest I rot. Two: Do not overdraw me, Lord. I shall break. Three: Overdraw me, and who cares if I break! "Choose!

Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable. - Wizard

Men are little boys, she would have said as she lifted her glass. Don't stir or you'll bruise the ice cubes.

Love faded, or flipped over into loathing. Or settled somewhere in between into a kind of grinding detachment. It could snap like a dry twig, with one careless step.

There was no monster so fierce or so vulnerable as a man's ego.

When there was a crack in something it only widened if you didn't tend to it. Let it go long enough, a crack became a break, and you had a hell of a mess on your hands.

When there was a crack in something it only widened if you didn't tend to it. Let it go long enough, a crack became a break, and you had a hell of a mess on your hands.

I'm still alive, but I feel myself dying, person by person by person by person.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.

Hey, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.

These flowers will be rotten in a couple hours. Birds will crap on them. The smoke here will make them stink, and tomorrow a bulldozer will probably run over them, but for right now they are so beautiful.

There's al­ways the chance you could die right in the mid­dle of your life sto­ry.

No mat­ter how much I try and hide this, bit by bit, I start to fall apart.

Honey, times like this, it helps to think of yourself as a sofa or a newspaper, something made by a lot of other people but not made to last forever.

Nothing is static. Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.

These old people. These human ruins.

Despite my lifetime of declining rich desserts, my evenings spent jogging, regardless of all my careful moderation and self-discipline—I'm trapped, wadded inside a shell of steel and aluminum. My body, violated in countless places by fragments of broken glass. My low-cholesterol blood rushes to abandon me in hot, leaping spurts. Despite all my care, the heart-attack victim and I will both be just as dead.

Therefore, when we neglect to fear such a brittle monstrosity, we render it powerless.

How could you let me love something that was going to die?