Quotes About Fragility

Behind her the sun was still shining, so that every grove and every single tree between her and the storm blazed ardent and vivid, little frail things defying the dark with leaf and twig and fruit and flower.

Whenever you turn your head, your deaths dodge behind you. Wherever you look, they hide. They hide in a teacup. Or in a dewdrop. Or in a breath of wind.

The idea hovered and shivered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.

men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain.

All these things that are changing…like ice breaking under your feet.

They looked as frail and doomed as a dam of little twigs and tiny pebbles trying to hold back the Mississippi. But they were trying, all the same. They'd go on trying till the end of everything.

You are so young, Lyra, too young to understand this, but I shall tell you anyway and you'll understand it later: men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain.

other people's weakness can destroy you just as much as their strength can. Weak people are not harmless. Their weakness can be their strength. A

The adult world, in Dave's opinion, has turned out to be a basically shifty, shitty place. It's risky and often sad and always wildly insecure . It beats him over the head, just how insecure and fragile is his place in his own lifetime. He knows, now, that nearly everything you call Yours in the world can be taken away from you by other people, assuming that they want it enough.

You've been kidding yourself about yourself for so long, you're someone else. Your you is just a fragile fabrication. Every morning, you have to wake up, assemble this busy, dissembling monster, and get him or her on his or her feet again for another round of fantasy.

the only unfailing guide I've ever found through the innumerable blind alleys of my life as a writer, man, husband, father, citizen, steward, or believer, is the love burning in my heart. for me, prayer is about one thing: making contact with that love. though it burns in there like a candle flame, hot, bright, beautiful, love's flame is so fragile… keeping one's love burning, and living in accord with that burning: this, to me, is prayer.

You spend so much time, so much effort, trying to hold yourself together. And then everything falls apart anyway.

why won't they leave me alone? don't they realize I have a tinder heart and a paper body and that any spark will turn me straight to ash?

Beautiful sadness is a myth. Sadness turns our features to clay, not porcelain.

I instantly feel like the world has turned to glass. Every moment is delicate. Every movement is a risk.

It's like I've landed in the most perfect place in the universe. And then it blows up.

Corrode, v. I spent all this time building a relationship. Then one night I left the window open, and it started to rust.

You spend so much time, so much effort, trying to hold yourself togheter. And then everything falls apart anyway.

Too much. Too fast. Too intense. The glass soul falls to the ground and shatters into a thousand words. The invisible boy becomes visible, and all of a sudden, his emotions blast neon.

hang me/like a dead rose/preserve me/and my petals won't fall/until you touch them/and i dissolve

It was an exquisite irony: Just when we stopped wanting to kill ourselves, we started to die. Just when we were feeling strenght, it was taken from us.

It was an exquisite irony: Just when we stopped wanting to kill ourselves, we started to die. Just when we were feeling strength, it was taken from us. This

She was pretty, though. Like a flower. I missed that.

As the two of us—past self, my present self—hovered over her bed, I could see each cruel damage written across her skin, beneath her eyes, down into her bones. She was no longer the way she wanted to be remembered. She was already more breath than body.