Quotes About Fragility

Though everything is so fragile. I feel so lost. I live off a secret that glows in luminous rays that would darken me if I didn't cover them with a heavy cloak of false certainties. May the God help me: I am without a guide and it is dark once again.

Things went somehow so good that were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.

she had stared through the window at a little old lady in the sun, grubby, light and quick – a branch quivering in the breeze. A dry branch where there was so much femininity, Joana had thought, that the poor dear could have a child if life hadn't dried up in her body

Hope is a child not yet born, only promised, and that bruises.

Siempre fue y será una fiesta para mí cuando se rompe en casa un termómetro y se libera la gota gorda de mercurio plateado contenida en él, ese núcleo indomesticable

Y a veces la gente demasiado sensible camina por una cornisa muy fina entre la realidad y sus pensamientos.

How to care for the injured body, the kind of body that can't hold the content it is living?

Patricia Williams has pointed out in The Alchemy of Race and Rights: "The cold game of equality staring makes me feel like a thin sheet of glass…. I could force my presence, the real me contained in those eyes, upon them, but I would be smashed in the process." Interviewed

White spume flew its ghost against the glass.

You have your dreams, you look round and everything's broken, hearts, windows, walls, telephone boxes. Everything breaks and disappears.

Morning breaks. So do bottles and bones.

if you are vulnerable economically, you are vulnerable all along the line.

How short life must be, if something so fragile can last a lifetime. —KAFKA

Nothing can save us. All this sweetness dies and rots.

Minne, pâle comme une nuit de lune, se réchauffe, un peu blessée, à ce feu de couleurs, et parfois, toute nue au soleil, un miroir à la main, cherche en vain, à travers son corps mince, l'ombre plus noire de son squelette élégant.

She wasted and grew so thin that she no longer was a little girl, but the shadow of a little girl. The flame of her life flickered so faintly that it appeared sufficient to blow at it to extinguish it. Stas understood that death did not have to wait for a third attack to take her and he expected it any day or any hour.

What we take to be our strongest tower of delight, only stands at the caprice of the minutest event—the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or the receipt of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small characters by a sharpened feather.

The cabbage white flies through the tailor's cheek. The tailor sinks his head. The cabbage white flies out of the back of the tailor's head, white and uncrumpled. Skinny Wilma flaps her handkerchief. The cabbage white flies through her forehead and into her head.

Yo miro a la abuela, no su cara, sino sus manos. Todos los tendones están tensos, ya no hay carne en esas manos, tan sólo huesos y piel reseca. La muerte podría inmovilizarlas en cualquier momento, pero aún se mueven cuando reza, y el rosario susurra entre ellas.

The world corrupts me, I think. Or perhaps it's just the weather. It pulls me down and makes me think like you, that one should shrink inside, down and down to a little point of light, preserving one's solitary soul like a flame under glass

But he thinks, no, none of us can stand anything. Scrape our skin, and beneath it there is an infant, howling.

If Henry is the mirror, he is the pale actor who sheds no lustre of his own, but spins in a reflected light. If the light moves he is gone.

I feel like a constellation of wounds, held together with string and stubbornness.

No matter how careful I am, eventually I'll make another misstep. I am weak. I am fragile. I am mortal.