Quotes About Silence

I have filled him in to be unobtainable, disinterested, attractive and bored with my company. My ideal mate. Someone to endure, never to enjoy. I am totally at his mercy. I suffer through the silence, imagining that he is suffering my company. That I am merely an alternative for nothing better to do. I'm frightened of the power I have given him over me and of how he will almost certainly abuse it, merely by not being fully aware he has it.

Clothes falling away signals a situation that I'll likely avoid putting into words. If clothes don't dress it up, don't expect talk to, either.

Mum is the word for just so long and then it has to go back to being a British parent. Of

I WOULD LIKE to not be able to hear myself think. I constantly hear my mind chattering and jabbering away up there all by itself. I wish it would give me a fucking break. Write, don't think, write. You're not thinking properly, Ms. Fisher, I suggest you write. If anyone reads this when I have passed to the big bad beyond I shall be posthumorously embarrassed. I shall spend my entire afterlife blushing.

She: One of us is boring. He: Why do you say that? She: Because … well, we're just sitting here, not talking. He: What's wrong with that? She: Well, I don't know. Probably nothing—it's just that we don't need each other for it. He: For what? She: Being quiet.

If you don't believe something, then don't say it. Saying it only gives it power. ~Betty White

At times he agreed with Anton: they were united by their silence. If they began articulating their thoughts, they'd feed one another's insanity and everything would fall apart.

Christ asks for a home in your soul, where he can be at rest with you, where he can talk easily to you, where you and he, alone together, can laugh and be silent and be delighted with one another.

In many people Christ lives the life of the Host. Our life is a sacramental life. This Host life is like the Advent life, like the life of the Child in the womb, the Child in the swaddling bands, the Christ in the tomb. It is a life of dependence upon creatures, of silence and secrecy, of hidden light. It is the life of a prisoner.

Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." Once again the music is measured by silence. Christ is in the tomb as He was in His mother's womb, and just as that first silence was part of the rhythm that moved forward to the visible coming of Life into the world, this silence in the tomb carries the music forward in three great beats to the hour when Life shall again come out of darkness and sweeten and sanctify the world.

That's why when major badasses greet each other in movies, they don't say anything, they just nod. The nod means, 'I' am a badass, and I recognize that you, too, are a badass,' but they don't say anything because they're Wolverine and Magneto and it would mess up their vibe to explain.

In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.

At the heart of each of us, whatever our imperfections, there exists a silent pulse of perfect rhythm, made up of wave forms and resonances, which is absolutely individual and unique, and yet which connects us to everything in the universe. The act of getting in touch with this pulse can transform our personal experience and in some way alter the world around us.

At the heart of ech of us,whatever the imperfections..exists a silent pulse of perfect rhythm....which connect us to the universe.

Remember: If you go for a walk with a friend in England, don't say a single word for hours; if you go for a walk with your dog, talk to it all the time.

Overstatement, too, plays a considerable part in English social life. This takes mostly the form of someone remarking: 'I say…' and then keeping silent for three days on end.

In suburbia," Van Sickler said, "no one can hear you scream.

Dead rats don't squeak.

He'll be down with the books. My old septon used to say books are dead men talking. Dead men should keep quiet is what I say. No one wants to hear a dead man's yabber.

And all was black and still, and black and cold, and black and dead, and black.

The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.

Foolish woman, will holding it secret in your heart make it any less true? If you never tell, never speak of it, will it become only a dream, less than a dream, a nightmare half-remembered? Oh, if only the gods would be so good.

A bag of dragons buys a man's silence for a while, but a well-placed quarrel buys it forever.

He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. And so it was this time.