Quotes About Wonder

Did he say:"Hullo,Pippin!This is a pleasant surprise!"?No,indeed!He said:"Get up,you tom-fool of a Took!Where,in the name of wonder,in all this ruin is Treebeard?I want him.Quick" -Pippin Took

I think there's a part in each one of us that wants the impossible to happen, and that's what surprises are.

Sometimes I really want to believe in God. I really admire, in a lot of ways, people who have faith. I think it must be a beautiful thing to believe.

I am always writing a potpourri of music. I want to give the world escapism through the wonder of great music and to reach the masses.

In reality, I never want to grow up.

God left so many fingerprints at the scene of Creation that you wonder — does He want to be found, or does He want to be stopped?

God wants us to walk in the miraculous!

The weather is beautiful in Toulon and the girls are beautiful and I don't want to leave.

It's fun to discover things. I wouldn't want everything laid out, simply and too obviously.

Dear God, woman,"said Will. "Are there any questions you don't want to know the answer to?

The world is a very complex and interesting place and that is what I really want my fiction to say: wake up to how amazing the world is.

[Hillary Clinton] telling the enemy everything you want to do. No wonder you've been fighting - no wonder you've been fighting ISIS your entire adult life.

That's my answer to the question what is your strongest emotion, if you ever want to ask me: Curiosity, old bean. Curiosity every time.

This is the beauty I want. Beauty has got to be astonishing, astounding-- it's got to burst in on you like a dream, like the exquisite eyes of a girl.

This one,' said the hooded man, 'resists sorcery, Cotillion. Though his blood is old, I wonder, will all mortals one day be like him? An end to miracles. Nothing but dull, banal existence, nothing but mundane absence of wonder.' The cane jabbed. 'A world of bureaucrats. Mealy-minded, sour-faced and miserable as a reunion of clerks. In such a world, Cotillion, not even the gods will visit. Except in pilgrimage to depression.

Just so. And wonder, my friend, is the intellect's most feared foe. Its path is love, and love is the language of humility. The rational mind would stand over it with a bloodstained sword, and in the empty bleakness of its eyes you will see its triumph.

None of these visions of creation did more than serve the vanity of those holding them. As if all was made for them; for their eyes to witness, for their wonder to behold. Rint did not believe it. The past had no beginning. Something always existed before, no matter how far back one reached.

the role of artists is to attend the funerals. They are the pall-bearers of failure, and every wonder they raise high in celebration harks back to a time already dead.

By that argument, is not the opposite equally true? That what we reject ceases. That 'truth' is born in what we seek. That we create in order to believe. That we find only what we have created. That wonder does not exist outside ourselves? By our belief, we create the gods. And so, in turn, we can destroy them. With a single thought. A moment's refusal, an instant's denial.

Murillio sighed. 'Rallick Nom.' 'What of him?' 'I wish he were here.' 'Why?' 'So he could kill someone. Anyone. The man's a wonder at simplifying matters.' Coll grunted a laugh. '"Simplifying matters." Wait until I tell him that one. Hey, Rallick, you're not an assassin, you know, you're just a man who simplifies.

What are gods, after all, if not the perfect victims?" He smiled, raising his hands and fluttering his fingers. "For Kruppe, whose sleight of hand is matched only by his sleight of mind? Perfect victims of confidence, claims Kruppe, ever blinded by arrogance, ever convinced of infallibility. Is it not a wonder that they have survived this long?

Show me a merciful child and I will truly avow a belief in miracles.

No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine.

everything – now sank beneath a familiar cloud, settling grey and thick, where every shape was but hinted at, where he was lost. As lost as he had been, as lost as any and every mortal soul, no matter how blustery its claims to certainty, to faith. And yet…and yet it was a warm cloud, shot through with precious things: his love for his wife, his children; his wonder at their lives, the changes that came to them day by day. He found he was weeping, even as he climbed to his feet.