Quotes About Uncertainty

there is no answer. Whichever you choose, you are wrong.

There was a silence. Then Chiron said, "When I brought you both here, I had not decided yet what I would do. Thetis sees many faults, some that are and some that are not." His voice was unreadable again. Hope and despair flared and died in me by turns.

Achilles' face went pale. "Is it certain?" This is what all mortals ask first, in disbelief, shock, fear. Is there no exception for me?

Es esto lo que voy a echar de menos. Me mataré antes que perderlo», pensé, y luego me pregunté: «¿Cuánto tiempo tenemos?».

Nel mio petto vibrava qualcosa a cui non riuscivo esattamente a dare un nome. Desiderio di fuga, pericolo, speranza, tutto allo stesso tempo".

If you had your time all over again....? She was keen to know. You can't rewrite history. I have no idea what I'd do.

He thought about how life never turns out like you think and hope it will.

In my experience, lights at the end of the tunnel tend to flicker out.

Every day you awaken, the day before you is a mystery, that is the mystery of life -Maggie Bayliss

And certainly there are many speakers whom I'd like to see do more trembling, more unknowing, more apologizing.

Barthes found the exit to this merry-go-round by reminding himself that "it is language which is assertive, not he." It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature by "add[ing] to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty

My writing is riddled with such tics of uncertainty. I have no excuse or solution, save to allow myself the tremblings, then go back in later and slash them out. In this way I edit myself into a boldness that is neither native nor foreign to me.

100. It often happens that we count our days, as if the act of measurement made us some kind of promise. But really this is like hoisting a harness onto an invisible horse. "There is simply no way that a year from now you're going to feel the way you feel today," a different therapist said to me last year at this time. But though I have learned to act as if I feel differently, the truth is that my feelings haven't really changed.

Most of my writing usually feels to me like a bad idea, which makes it hard for me to know which ideas feel bad because they have merit, and which ones feel bad because they don't

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature 'adding to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.' My writing is riddled with such tics of uncertainty. I have no excuse or solution, save to allow myself the tremblings, then go back in later and slash them out. In this way I edit myself into a boldness that is neither native nor foreign to me.

Uno de los hombres pregunta «¿por qué azul?». La gente me pregunta eso con frecuencia. Nunca sé cómo responder. No podemos elegir qué o a quién amamos, quisiera decir. Simplemente no elegimos.

I'm not on my way anywhere, Harry sometimes tells inquirers. How to explain, in a culture frantic for resolution, that sometimes the shit stays messy?

Pharmakon means drug, but as Jacques Derrida and others have pointed out, the word in Greek famously refuses to designate whether poison or cure. It holds both in the bowl.

Babies grow in a helix of hope and fear.

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature by 'adding to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.' My writing is riddled with such tics of uncertainty. I have no excuse or solution, save to allow myself the tremblings, then go back in later and slash them out. In this way I edit myself into a boldness that is neither native nor foreign to me.

It is absurd, Barthes says, to try to flee from language's assertive nature by "add[ing] to each sentence some little phrase of uncertainty, as if anything that came out of language could make language tremble.

This person is now lost to her for ever. She is someone adrift in her life, who doesn't recognise it. She is unmoored, at a loss. She is someone who weeps if she cannot find a shoe or overboils the soup or trips over a pot. Small things undo her. Nothing is certain any more.

The previous day and the day yet to come hang in a balance, each waiting for the other to make a move.

Oh,' she burst out. 'I hate this—I hate it.' 'What?' 'Just—this. I feel as though I'm waiting for something and I'm getting scared it might never come.