Quotes About Uncertainty

Something new will come from Satan. Perhaps it already has.

I want to tell him that everything is a mess, that I hate the in-between space, that my feet ache for the ground, that a very small, very scared part of me wants to touch the sky, and that that is maybe the worst thing of all.

I frightened myself. I became the ghost Piper was so scared of.

I was coming around to the belief that whether you liked it or not, Things Happen and once they start happening you pretty much just have to hold on for dear life and see where they drop you when they stop

Eck nodded, a bit uncertainly. He supposed that in the absence of a future, a friend might be nice.

When a creature begins to emerge from it's chrysails there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new identity nor rid of the old one. It's wings are folded and sticky, it's colours hidden. Whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed. It is that long, still, moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. The suspence of waiting for beauty to unfurl.

Nem mindig rajtunk múlik, milyen véget érnek a dolgok.

Things Happen and once they start happening you pretty much just have to hold on for dear life and see where they drop you when they stop.

The open road. What a trio of words. What a vision of blue sky and untouched hills and narrow trails heading God knew where and being free—free and hungry, free and cold, free and wet, free and lost. Who could mourn such conditions, faced with the alternative?

A piano might fall on your head, he said, but it also might not. And in the meantime you never know. Something nice might happen.

Che ti piaccia o no, le cose succedono e una volta che cominciano a succedere devi solo tenere duro e stare a vedere dove ti mollano quando finiscono.

Summer was for pleasure and boredom, not chaos and doubt.

And I also know that pain can seem like an endless ribbon. You pull it and you pull it. You keep gathering it toward you, and as it collects, you really can't believe that there's something else at the end of it. Something that isn't just more pain. But there's always something else at the end; something at least a little different. You never know what that thing will be, but it's there.

because when you're young, you don't really believe you'll ever be anything other than young.

the rest of life—that imperfect thing—waiting.

When do I stop? When I'm tewnty-five? Thirty? Thirty-five? Forty? Or right this minute? Nobody tell s you how long you should keep doing something before you give up forever.

But here was where the question of talent became slippery, for who could say whether Spirit-in-the-Woods had ever pulled incipient talent out of a kid and activated it, or whether the talent had been there all along and would have come out even without this place.

This was an era in which sofa beds were frequently opened and unfolded; at this age people were still floating, not entirely landed, still needing places to stay the night sometimes. They were doing what they could, crashing in other places, living extemporaneously. Soon enough, the pace would pick up, the solid matter of life would kick in. Soon enough, sofa beds would stay folded.

He thought she might kill him accidentally or on purpose.

It seemed so unlikely, but then again, so did many things in life.

He didn't feel the need to have his life figured out. But the truth was that he didn't want to deal with it.

She sometimes said, "I don't know," even when she did know. What she meant was that it was more comfortable to stay in vagueness than to leave it.

Will you be okay? I do not mean in a cosmic sense.

you sometimes feel totally unready for them, or even that they're