Quotes About Fragmented

I write in a very strange way. Things are very fragmentary for a very long time, and then they come together very quickly near the end of the process.

It had seemed this past month as if they were all one, that her life had been a single sexual encounter, one dreamed fuck, no beginnings or endings, no point beyond itself.

She thought about nothing. Her mind was a blank tape, imprinted daily with snatches of things overheard, fragments of dealers' patter, the beginning of jokes and odd lines of song lyrics.

Andrè fu il primo a partire, mentre parlava, a metà di una frase, come si spegne una candela.

Perhaps nothing in this broken world can be pure or of a piece, unfractured.

You are only partly alive.

Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears. We can rediscover the continuity of time only in the novels of that period when time no longer seemed stopped and did not yet seem to have exploded, a period that lasted no more than a hundred years.

You will always own a piece of my heart. Unfortunately that's the piece thats broken.

The supermarket shelves have been rearranged. It happened one day without warning. There is agitation and panic in the aisles, dismay in the faces of older shoppers. They walk in a fragmented trance, stop and go, clusters of well-dressed figures frozen in the aisles, trying to figure out the pattern, discern the underlying logic, trying to remember where they'd seen the Cream of Wheat.

Separately from short sleep duration, habitual loud snoring is associated with hyperactivity, depression, and inattention. Additionally, habitual snoring has been shown to be a factor in fragmented sleep.

Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole.

The visions are fragmented and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures.

The wise man, the true friend, the finished character, we seek everywhere, and only find in fragments.

Pieces. A bit for someone here. A bit there. And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole. But you are so busy dancing. Delivering. You don't have time to notice. Or are afraid to notice. And then one day you have to look. And it's true. All of your pieces fill up other people's holes. But they don't fill your own.

There is never a sudden revelation, a complete and tidy explanation for why it happened, or why it ends, or why or who you are. You want one and I want one, but there isn't one. It comes in bits and pieces, and you stitch them together wherever they fit, and when you are done you hold yourself up, and still there are holes and you are a rag doll, invented, imperfect. And yet you are all that you have, so you must be enough. There is no other way.

What is required by the facts which Freud describes under the name of repression, complex, regression or resistance is only the possibility of a fragmented life of consciousness which does not possess a unique significance at all times.

Sve sam to ja, isitnjen, sav od komadi?a, od odsjaja, probljesaka, sav od slu?ajnosti, od nerapoznatih razloga, od smisla koji je postojao pa se zaturio, i sada više ne znam što sam u tom kršu.

Sve sam to ja, isitnjen, sav od komadi?a, od odsjaja, probljesaka, sav od slu?ajnosti, od neraspoznatih razloga, od smisla koji je postojao pa se zaturio, i sad više ne znam šta sam u tom kršu.

In this, where nurses paced the floor like night watchmen in the bleak hours, lay fragmented women.

In this room, where nurses paced the floor like night watchmen in the bleak hours, lay fragmented women.

The memories come in pieces. Little bits of grit too small to pick up even with a wetted finer, too small even to hold in my gaze.

Like chaos in a glass cage.

Had they not wounded her, she'd be inaccessible to him. Had she not resisted the darkness so successfully, she'd not be strong enough to handle what he was about to do to her. She'd been damaged, but not irreparably. Fragmented and strong, the perfect mix for him.

Rumi, who is one of the greatest Persian poets, said that the truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.