Quotes About Quiet

If you can't turn off your thoughts, who cares how soft your pillow is?" - David King

Stout was a leader—quiet, unselfish, modest, yet very strong, very thoughtful and remarkably innovative. Whether speaking or writing, he was economical with words, precise, vivid. One believed what he said; one wanted to do what he proposed." Neither

Keep your voice down!' I warned. 'The house is asleep.' 'Come quick,' he repeated, though in a lower tone. 'And bring gun.' 'Why?

Be nice and silent as a boulder amidst breakers.

A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.

I give you a small serenity.

Learn to Be Silent

first strategy was known to the sages as the Ritual of Solitude.

Tranquility is the new luxury of our society.

Elite production without quiet vacation causes lasting depletion. Rest and recovery isn't a luxury for anyone committed to mastery—it's a necessity.

Solitude and quiet connect you to your creative source and release the limitless intelligence of Life.

A cat knows how to be comfortable, how to get the people around it to serve it. In a tranquil domestic situation, the cat is a veritable manipulative genius. It seeks the soft, it seeks the warm, it prefers the quiet and it loves to be full. It displays, when it gets its own way in these matters, a degree of contentment we would all like to emulate.

The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, she thought, calling it peace and quiet.

I have not a desire but a need for solitude.

The quieter he was, the more forceful his presence seemed

Pierpont was, by nature, a laconic man.

We both sat there mute, as if we were in a no-talking competition and serious about winning. I

You're a hard man, Reacher," she said. He was quiet in turn. "I think I'm a realistic man," he said. "And a decent enough guy, all told." "You may find normal people don't agree." He nodded. "A lot of you don't," he said.

Paris was dark and damp and cold and quiet. Cafés and restaurants had warm lights burning behind closed doors and fogged windows. The streets were wet and lined with small parked cars. The cars were all misted over with nighttime dew. We walked together south and west and crossed the Seine at the Pont de la Concorde. Turned west again along the Quai d'Orsay. The river was dark and sluggish. Nothing was moving on it. The streets were empty. Nobody was out and about.

The door closed behind her and the room was suddenly quiet. It felt empty, with just a hint of her perfume to remind me she'd been there.

Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not even a click or a whir or a cough. Turning the key was the same thing as not turning it. Inert. Dead as a doornail. Dead as the deadest thing that ever died.

absolute stillness. The highway was deserted. There was no traffic.

He went up the metal stairs as quietly as he could, reducing the likely clang to a duller pulsing boom, by placing his feet very carefully. He found 214 and knocked on its door, firmly but discreetly, like he imagined a bellboy would, in a fine hotel.

My driver asked, "Sir, do you have everything you need?" Which in an existential sense was a very big question, but I had no immediate requirements, so I just nodded in the mirror and stayed quiet.