Quotes About Friendship

Ann Napolitano

Writing is a job, a talent, but it's also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon.

You need to add light and joy. After all, isn't Christmas with its lights, and Hanukkah with its candle flames, about adding illumination to this dark time of year? We need to remind ourselves that the sun will eventually push the night to more reasonable margins. The Christmas cookie club, if it's anything, is a reminder of delight. And, of course, a reminder that girlfriends help one another to endure the grind and to celebrate the joy.

We might have been friends, if you had had a slightly lower set of standards, if your judgements of people had been less unkind, less critical; if that outer layer of pride had not been so prickly, so impenetrable.

On the surface, at least, it seemed that I had more problems than Ted did. He was one of those rare people who listen with full attention, who evince a genuine caring by their very stance. You could tell things to Ted that you might never tell anyone else.

This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel. How many spectacles I've missed: the curtain rising without me, and falling too. How many friends I never had the chance to meet.

Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.

And you, my friends! So few of you remain That you are dearer daily. I rejoice In you. How short the road has become, That once appeared the longest road of all.

You will not live again. You will not rise from the snow Twenty-eight holes from the bayonet Five from the gun. I have made a shroud for my friend, Sad cloth. She loves, loves blood This Russian earth.

Oh, quantos espetáculos perdi, quantas vezes o pano ergueu-se e caiu sem mim. Quantos de meus amigos nunca encontrei uma só vez em toda a minha vida, (...)

There are Four of Us I have turned aside from everything, from the whole earthly store. The spirit and guardian of this place is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, and life is a habit we put on. On paths of air I seem to overhear two friendly voices, talking in turn. Did I say two?...There by the east wall's tangle of raspberry, is a branch of elder, dark and fresh. Why! It's a letter from Marina. November 1962 (in delirium)

The earthly glory is like smoke, I wanted much more than this. In all my lovers I evoked The feelings of joy and bliss. One is still in love somewhere With a friend from long ago, The other stands in the city square,- A statue of bronze in the snow.

Yellow and fresh are the lanterns, Black is the road of the garden at sea. I am very calm. Only please, do not Talk about him with me. You're tender and loyal, we'll be friends. . Have fun, kiss, together grow old. . And light months above us will fly like feathers, Like stars made of snow and as cold.

Ahora sé cómo se desvanecen los rostros, cómo bajo los párpados anida el terror, cómo el dolor traza en las mejillas rudas páginas cuneiformes, cómo unos rizos cenicientos y negros se tornan plateados de repente, la sonrisa se marchita en los labios dóciles y en una risa seca tiembla el pavor. y no sólo por mí rezo, sino por quienes permanecieron allí conmigo, en el frío feroz y en el infierno de Julio, bajo el muro rojo y ciego

Each and every day, I get One letter like a bride. I'm responding to my friend, Writing late at night: "On my way into the dark, I've stopped in white death's den. My dear, don't leave an evil mark On another man." And a brilliant star gleams Between two trees at night, Calmly promising that dreams Will soon be satisfied.

Magdalene wept in a furious daze, The dear disciple stood still, like a stone.

Did not scold me, did not praise me, Like friends and like enemies. Only left his soul to me And then said, "Now keep in peace." And one thing worries me so: If this moment he will die, God's archangel will come to me For his soul from the sky. How then will I hide her so, How to hide it from God's eyes? She, the soul, that cries and sings so Must be in His paradise.

All promised him to me: The heaven's edge, dark and kind, And lovely Christmas sleep And multi-ringing Easter wind, And the red branches of a twig, And waterfalls inside a park, And two dragonflies On rusty iron of a bulwark. And I could not disbelieve, That he'll befriend me all alone When on the mountain slopes I went Along hot pathway made of stone.

What if one person happened to be sane, longest friend, against a whole background, a race mind, that wasn't sane, that person would probably be viewed by the mass consciousness as mad - but would that person be mad?

This was not the way of longest friend. Everything meant something to her. Everything was of use to her. Or to be made of use. To be stored away for utility at some future opportunistic date.

Well, Nigel?" Silverton's sardonic tone drew him back to the conversation. "You're right in that I wouldn't expect Miss Easton to hold the lack of a title against a fellow, but she doesn't think about me as a…prospective suitor." Nigel paused, forcing himself to accept the grim reality. "She sees me only as a friend." And

Do not save your loving speeches for your friends till they are dead; Do not write them on their tombstones; speak them rather now instead.

Friendship is a wildly underrated medication.

I was a mimic when I was a child. I mimicked the teacher and made friends that way, actually. That was a very subversive activity, because I was a goody-goody who never got in trouble. But if I went off in the corner and mimicked the teacher, people loved it.