Quotes About Broken

He'd broken the man's bone. And now he should break his fingers and both of his arms and both of his legs as instructed by the drawings. He should do it now, while the man was out. He already had the man's right arm wrapped in towels, bridging the gap between two blocks of wood. He should break it. How would BoneMan know? He hadn't seen any closed- circuit camera.

Their homeopathic letters, Envelopes full of carefully broken glass To lodge behind your eyes so you would see

And he is an owl He is an owl, Man tattooed in his armpit Under the broken wing (Stunned by the wall of glare, he fell here) Under the broken wing of huge shadow that twitches across the floor. He is a man in hopeless feathers.

That earns him a smack with my book bag. "Ow." He clutches his arm. "What do you have in there? Books?" A grin snakes across his face. "I like my women feisty." He adds, "I like my broken.

Perhaps he could still weave together the broken threads of his life. And yet, I wanted him here now. I needed him here. In the darkness, if I sat very still, I could almost feel his presence by me, quite near, but not too near. Didn't I promise to keep you safe, he would say softly. I have never broken a promise. Don't look so worried, Jenny. And yet, he would be careful. Careful not to move too close. Careful not to frighten me. Waiting still. I am your shelter. Don't be afraid.

The heart, once broken, stayed broken.

I fix broken people with things, with stuff; with tricks, lies, devices. I'm resourceful and ingenious. I don't confront, I avoid; and one of the things I do my best to avoid is justice, and another one is death.

Her mother was by turns tender and pathetic and terrifying, broken in a way that no one, in that time or place, had any idea how to fix.

This should be agony. I should be a mass of aching muscle - broken, spent, unable to move. And, were I an older man, I surely would ... ... but I'm a man of thirty - of twenty again. The rain on my chest is a baptism - I'm born again ...

To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness, is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken. But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness - especially in the wilderness - you shall love him.

When this is done, Jerkface, I will hold your tarnished and melted pin up as my trophy as your smoldering ship marks your pyre, and the final resting place of your crushed and broken corpse!" - Spensa, pg. 64

I imagined those broken rocks as the broken bodies of my enemies, their bones shattered, their trembling arms reaching upward in a useless gesture of total and complete defeat. I was a very odd little girl.

I swear, my dear. Sometimes our conversations remind me of a broken sword." She raised an eyebrow. "Sharp as hell," Lightsong said, "but lacking a point.

I swear, my dear. Sometimes our conversations remind me of a broken sword." She raised an eyebrow. "Sharp as hell," Lightsong said, "but lacking a point.

He saw it in her eyes. The anguish, the frustration. The terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to smother her. She knew. It was there, inside. She had been broken. Then she smiled. Oh, storms. She smiled anyway . It was the single most beautiful thing he'd seen in his entire life.

As we come to grips with our own selfishness and stupidity, we make friends with the impostor and accept that we are impoverished and broken and realize that, if we were not, we would be God. The art of gentleness toward ourselves leads to being gentle with others -- and is a natural prerequisite for our presence to God in prayer.

these past months have been hard on me and I'm quite confused—physically, mentally and emotionally drained. I feel like a wounded animal stuck with spears, staggering around aimlessly. . . . I keep going on like there is nothing wrong. Sooner or later I will break. I want to break, to let it go in an agonizing wail—but I just can't seem to let it out.

We want to live as people chosen, blessed, and broken, and thus become food for the world.

the celebration of the resurrection of the body is also the celebration of the daily care given to the bodies of these handicapped men and women. Washing and feeding, pushing wheelchairs, carrying, kissing, and caressing— these are all ways in which these broken bodies are made ready for the moment of a new life. Not only their wounds but also the care given them will remain visible in the resurrection.

As those who are chosen, blessed, broken and given, we are called to live our lives with a deep inner joy and peace. It is the life of the Beloved, lived in a world constantly trying to convince us that the burden is on us to prove that we are worthy of being loved.

The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the rides of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music.

what we have brought to perfection, in our zeal to escape the true reality, is a complete arsenal of destruction; when we have rid ourselves of the suicidal mania for a beyond we shall begin the life of here and now which is reality and which is sufficient unto itself. We shall have no need for art or religion because we shall be in ourselves a work of art...this is the way in which man will overcome his broken state.

I suspect that young adults crave stories of broken futures because they themselves are uneasily aware that their world is falling apart.

According to them, the poet is confined to the provinces with his mouth broken on his own syllabic trapeze.