Quotes About Tension

The human mind is a dramatic structure in itself and our society is absolutely saturated with drama.

Sonny. "I curse the day I met you," he said, "you and your family," and he said it evenly, without malice or anger.

Stress is when you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet.

His [Ishmael's] hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him.

There is no discharge in that war.

I am for peace: but when I speak, they are for war.

Saying, Peace, peace; when there is no peace.

I came not to send peace, but a sword.

So spend some time seeing each of the things you cling to for what it really is, a nightmare that causes you excitement and pleasure on the one hand but also worry, insecurity, tension, anxiety, fear, unhappiness on the other.

cosa. La sinfonía de la vida prosigue, pero tú no dejas de mirar atrás, de aferrarte a unos cuantos compases de la sinfonía, de cerrar tus oídos al resto de la música, produciendo con ello una disarmonía y un conflicto entre lo que la vida te ofrece y aquello a lo que tú te aferras. Y vienen a continuación la tensión y la ansiedad, que constituyen la muerte misma del amor y de la gozosa libertad que el amor conlleva.

One of the biggest enemies to prayer is nervous tension.

Segunda verdad: si te limitas a disfrutar las cosas, negándote a quedar apegado a ellas, es decir, negándote a creer que no podrás ser feliz sin ellas, te ahorrarás toda la lucha y toda la tensión emocional que supone el protegerlas y conservarlas.

And yet everything radiates tension, as if the city has been built upon the skin of a balloon and someone is inflating it toward the breaking point.

That Dr. Hauptmann might have ties so far up—that the telephone on his desk connects him with men a hundred miles away who could probably wag a finger and send a dozen Messerschmitts streaming up from an airfield to strafe some city—intoxicates Werner. We live in exceptional times.

The air between them seemed to accumulate energy.

Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. "Werner?" Jutta whispers. He blinks;

The city seems utterly still, as though everyone is listening, waiting for someone to slip.

The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.

Cars growl in the streets; leaves whisper in the sky; blood rustles through her inner ears. In the stairwell, in the kitchen, even beside her bed, grown-up voices speak of despair.

We are a volley of bullets, we are cannonballs.

The war drops its question mark.

She can hear the bombers when they are three miles away. A mounting static. The hum inside a seashell.

Good evening, he thinks. Or heil Hitler. Everyone is choosing the latter.

From a certain angle, the spring seems so calm: warm, tender, each night redolent and composed. And yet everything radiates tension, as if the city has been built upon the skin of a balloon and someone is inflating it to the breaking point.