Quotes About Fragility

It was hard to remember what the yard had looked like even twelve hours before, undisturbed and pristine. Like it takes so little to change something, but to make you forget the way it once was, as well.

Careful, she called out to me, her voice sharp; part admonishment, part warning. But I'd been that way all this time, and it hadn't changed a thing. Maybe it was better to barrel through life, breaking fragile things and catching on every jagged edge. Neat or messy, calm or crazy, I still ended up in this same place.

But down deeper, something I'd seen as solid-- not perfect, but solid-- was suddenly crumbling. I felt like I was falling to pieces right along with it.

Something I had seen as slid–not perfect, but solid–was suddenly crumbling. I felt like I was falling to pieces right along with it.

You only really fall apart in front of people you know can piece you back together.

What must it be like to be so genuine, so fragile, your entire world of thoughts so easy to read on your face? I couldn't even imagine.

We were dandelion seeds released to the wind, she asked for no return. We are saplings now. With gentle hands.

I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar: it can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

Some people will punish you merely for witnessing their weakness. Even if they sought you out and asked for help. Even if you helped. Especially if you helped.

shrunken passages of his body. And then the body, too – ah, God! – wastes away; and leaves its bones, and even the bones at last wear away and crumble to dust in that shallow place of deposit. And thus humanized, this planet in its galaxy of stars and worlds goes from void to void, infinitesimal, aching with its unrelated significance.

The flowers were so beautiful, so delicate and unthreatening, but they choked everything around them.

You can't blame a match for a house made of straw

Did you really think I was too fragile to know what Deryn was? Fragile? Volger looked about. I hadn't thought so, but now I find you brooding in a bathroom. This doesn't speak well of your sturdiness.

zavall? türden tutkulard?r bunlar, ve bunlar? örtmeye hiç mi hiç gerek duyulmuyor. ..

Ruh sükûneti muhte?em bir ?ey, kendinden ho?nut olmak da ayn? ?ekilde. Sevgili dostum, ke?ke çok de?erli bir mücevher olan bu duygu, güzel ve paha biçilmez oldu?u kadar k?r?lgan olmasa.

her ?ey gelip geçmiyor mu? her ?eyin, varolu?uyla birlikte sahip oldu?u gücü sonuna kadar tüketme f?rsat?n? bulmas? ender de?il midir? her ?ey, ak?nt?ya kap?l?yor, bat?r?l?yor ve kayalarda parçalanm?yor mu?

A overly sensitive heart is an unhappy possession on this shaky earth.

Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

When the beginnings of self-destruction enter the heart it seems no bigger than a grain of sand.

How frail the bloom, how short the stay That terminates us all! Today we flourish green and gay, Like leaves tomorrow fall.

There are some young almond tress, which ordinarily look as if drawn by a childish hand. Now, as the wind sets their weak branches gibbering, they seem like shamanistic scratches on the white bone of the brittle bright night.

Life seemed entirely composed of weeping faces, old men sneaking up bedroom-stairs, tombstones with spittle trickling down, and black-edged calling-cards. He felt as if the First Cause of the Universe were a small, malignant grub, radiating a deadly blight in withering, centrifugal air-waves!

There's a time in some years, after the first frosts, when the sun gets hot again, and summer returns for a time. Winter is coming; you know that from the way the mornings smell, the way the leaves, half-turned to color, are dry and poised to drop. But summer goes on, a small false summer, all the more precious for being small and false. In Little Belaire, we called this time--for some reason nobody knows--engine summer.