Quotes About Vulnerability

a visceral reaction to a word that scrapes at her like the talons of an eagle, cutting and slicing her skin until blood runs out.

All our bright minds," Feynman said sardonically, "and we can't figure how to stop the enemy from dumping dirt on us." Freeman said with delicate precision, "We are hothouse flowers, really. Not made for the blunt edge of war." Nods

One of the ironies of courage, and the reason why we prize it so highly, is that we find it easier to be brave for someone else than we do for ourselves alone.

If you make your heart into a weapon, you end up using it on yourself.

Cowardece is often just another name for being taken by surprise.

It isn't a secret, unless keeping it hurts.

Yes. You're a good listener. That's dangerous, because it's so hard to resist. Being listened to—really listened to—is the second-best thing in the world.

The worst things that people do to us always make us feel ashamed. The worst things that people do always strike at the part of us that wants to love the world. And a tiny part of the shame we feel, when we're violated, is shame at being human.

I couldn't tell him that I felt too weak and beat up to climb a mountain: sometimes, all the guts you have is the guts you pretend, because you love someone too much to lose their respect.

Heaped up on the blankets, our bodies bound by weariness and her deep slumber, surrounded by sickness and hope, death and defiance, I touched the soft surrendered curl of Karla's sleeping fingers to my lips, and I pledged my heart to her forever.

People always hurt us with their trust, Karla said to me once. The surest way to hurt someone you like, is to put all your trust in him.

Love survives in us precisely because it isn't wise.

Sometimes the lion must roar to remind the horse of his fear.

We know that crying isn't a weakness, but a kind of strength.

E' sempre un errore molto sciocco rimanere soli con qualcuno di cui non avresti mai dovuto innamorarti

I joked and laughed about things that made other less wounded hearts weep, and I'd learned to harden myself against loss and death.

Men don't like to be that honest about love: to put the gun in a woman's hand, and hold it against their own hearts, and say, Here, this is how you kill me. But it was okay. It was okay.

My heart moved through deep and silent water. No-one, and nothing, could really hurt me. No-one, and nothing, could make me very happy. I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.

He wanted to tell me that he is in love with me. Why did I stop him? Am I so ashamed that it might be true?

Some people always manage to make us feel sorry for them, no matter how stupid and angry we feel about it after. They're the canaries, kind of, in the coalmines of our hearts.

Tears begin in the heart, but some of us deny the heart so often, and for so long, that when it speaks we hear not one but a hundred sorrows in the heartbreak. We know that crying is a good and natural thing. We know that crying isn't a weakness, but a kind of strength. Still, the weeping rips us root by tangled root from the earth, and we crash like fallen trees when we cry.

Without a good woman, a man like you - men like you and me - we're just asking for trouble, yaar.

Gli atti più perfidi dei nostri simili colpiscono sempre la parte di noi che desidera amare il mondo. E quando subiamo una violazione, una piccola parte della vergogna che proviamo è quella di appartenere alla razza umana.

I've been in love with you for a while, and I finally had to say it. It doesn't mean you have to do anything about it -- or me either, for that matter.