Quotes About Survival

Gregory David Roberts

with the words, but hearing them in

and in minutes we were in blackness again, with nothing but faith and fear and the will to survive.

Hunger exaggerated the cold. It was a long, hard winter, with snow falling on the mountains around us every other day.

Some time on the next day we would be free, or we would be dead.

it's better to die fighting than to die like a rat in a trap.

the ghetto existed on a foundation of those anonymous, unthankable deeds; insignificant and almost trivial in themselves, but collectively essential to the survival of the slum.

Your heart starts to feel like an overcrowded lifeboat. You throw your pride out to keep it afloat, and your self-respect and your independence. After a while you start throwing people out—your friends, everyone you used to know. And it's still not enough. The lifeboat is still sinking, and you know it's going to take you down with it. I've seen that happen to a lot of girls here.

They became demi-heroes, and were moved to respond with special sales, reduced prices, and a carnival atmosphere. The ghetto was a living organism: to counter external threats, it responded with the antibodies of courage, solidarity, and that desperate, magnificent love we usually call the survival instinct.

Yoksulluk ve gurur, kan kardeÅŸ gibidir. Fakat sonunda mutlaka biri diÄŸerini öldürür.

The hosts—our bodies—and the viruses—any bug that makes us sick—are locked in a competition with each other. When the parasite attacks, the host develops a defence. Then the virus changes to beat that defence, so the host gets a new defence. And that keeps on going. They call it a Red Queen Contest. It's from the story, you know, Alice in Wonderland.

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

In the face of all that is so wrong with the world, the very worst thing you can do is survive. And yet you must survive. It is this dilemma that makes us believe and cling to the lie that we have a soul, and that there is a God who cares about its fate. And no

I courted danger because danger was one of the few things strong enough to help me forget what I'd lost.

Some loves are like that. Most loves are like that, from what I can see. Your heart starts to feel like an overcrowded lifeboat. You throw your pride out to keep it afloat, and your self-respect and your independence. After a while you start throwing people out - your friends, everyone you used to know. And it's still not enough. The lifeboat is still sinking, and you know it's going to take you down with it.

and violent, and they need to fear it. If

his struggle there to love and to be loved in return, and his drag-footed walk along the shoreline of his Fate are the fragments of his shipwreck survival.

And some time during the course of that love-song, somewhere in the landscape of the slum-dwellers' reassurances, somehow through the fact of our survival, their world enfolded my life within its dreams, as gently and completely as a swollen tide closes over a stone that stands upon its shore.

É a capacidade de perdoar que faz de nós aquilo que somos. Sem ela, a nossa espécie ter-se-ia aniquilado em desforras infinitas. Sem ela, não haveria História. Sem essa esperança, não haveria arte, porque toda a obra de arte é, de algum modo, um acto de perdoar. Sem esse sonho, não haveria amor, porque todo o acto de amor é de alguma forma uma promessa de perdão. Mantemo-nos vivos porque podemos amar, e amamos porque podemos perdoar.

But survival means more than simply being alive.

What is the use of beauty? i have lived my life surrounded by painters, and still I do not know the answer. But i suspect, some days, that beauty helps protect the spirit of mankind, swaddle it and succor it, so that we might survive. Beauty is no end in itself, but if it makes or lives less miserable so that we might be more kind-well, then, lets have beauty, painted on our porcelain, hanging on our walls, ringing through our stories.

Before you save anyone else, you have to save yourself. otherwise, you'rejust a bundle of tics, a stringed puppet manipulated by the chance and the insensible wind.

She would emerge. She always had before. The punishing political climate of Oz had beat her down, dried her up, tossed her away—like a seedling she had drifted, apparently too desiccated ever to take root. But surely the curse was on the land of Oz, not on her. Though Oz had given her a twisted life, hadn't it also made her capable?

The storm dropped a house on her head.