Quotes About Vulnerability

Dan selama perjalanannya itu, ia jadi tahu- bahwa hati yang paling rapuh sekalipun dapat belajar menyayangi, kehilangan, dan menyanyangi lagi

She herself often felt too terrified to go on, but she had never admitted it out loud

Flora reached out and grabbed hold of William Spiver's hand, and he held on to her. It was as if he were drowning and she were standing on solid ground. According to TERRIBLE THINGS! drowning people were desperate, out of their minds with fear. In their panic they could pull you, the rescuer, under, if you weren't careful. So Flora held on tightly to William Spiver. And he held on tightly back.

Despereaux turned. He looked up and into the Head Mouse's eyes. They were dark eyes, deep and sad and frightened. And as Despereaux looked into them, his heart thudded once, twice.

Beware of the brokenhearted," said the grandmother, "for they will lead you astray.

know to be a safe port in a storm?" Flora suddenly remembered her dream, how warm William Spiver's hand had felt in her own. She blushed. Whom did she trust? Good grief, she trusted William Spiver.

Despereaux felt a very intense pain in his hindquarters.

But, reader, we must not forget that Kind Phillip loved the queen and that without her, he was lost. This is the danger of loving: No matter how powerful you are, no matter how many kingdoms you rule, you cannot stop those you love from dying.

When the powerful are made weak, when they are revealed to be human, to have hearts, their diminishment is nothing short of terrifying.

Flora's heart, the lonely, many-armed squid of it, flipped and flailed inside of her.

All living things have a heart. And the heart of any living thing can be broken.

The human sprit can withstand much, but once broken, it crumbles like dust

No, I say. In no moral universe would this not be a crime, I say. I was a child, I tell him. Shame on you, I say. Shame on you, I say. Shame on you. And he laughs and reaches out for me. "You are cute as pie when you're angry," he says. "Come here," he says. "How old are you again?" he says. "Close your eyes," he says.

I closed the door and sank into my desk chair. My heart was pounding even harder. I felt like someone who had just staggered out of her car after an accident on a freeway. This was different from the cockroach and the books and the Barbie. I'd been injured. Someone had tried to physically harm me.

Everyone thought I was bold and fearless and even arrogant, but inside I was always quaking.

How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia.

I remember, in hot floods, the way he slept, still as death, with his face washed flat, stony as a carved tomb and exquisite. His weakness and his ravening bitter needs were terrible, and beautiful, and irresistible as an earthquake. He scalded or smothered anyone he needed, but his needing and the hurt that it caused me were the most life I have ever had. Remember what a poor thing I have always been and forgive me.

Just being visible is my biggest confession, so they try to set me at ease by revealing our equality, by dragging out their own less-apparent deformities.

Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites

Oh, of course, I always feel unconfident.

It is bitter for the young to see what awful innocence adults grow into, that terrible vulnerability that must be sheltered from the rodent mire of childhood.

I ran back dithering, chewing my hands in fright, until Arty finally allowed himself to roll slowly over and drift, belly up, toward the surface, where my short arms could reach him with the crook and tow him to the side. I patted and smoothed his water-swollen scalp and kissed his cheeks and nose and ears, weeping and begging him not to be dead because I, useless though I was, loved him.

All my dreams of leaving, but beneath them I was afraid to go. I had clung to them, to Rass, yes, even to my grandmother, afraid that if I loosened my fingers an iota, I would find myself once more cold and clean in a forgotten basket.

Bridge to Terabithia takes us by the hand and leads us into a room that we have never entered before. After we read this story, we cannot unknow what we now know. We are devastated, emotionally rent. But still: we feel held, loved, seen. Someone trusted us enough to tell us the truth; and because of that, the room is golden, brimful of light.