Quotes About Freedom

The Vega Gull is peacock blue with silver wings, more splendid than any bird I've known, and somehow mine to fly. She's called The Messenger, and has been designed and built with great care and skill to do what should be impossible—cross an ocean in one brave launch, thirty-six hundred miles of black chop and nothingness—and to take me with her. It

Then the rudder and elevator finally come to life, swinging her nose up, and she's left the earth—arrow straight. A butterfly after all.

as if whatever life she's had before now doesn't take up space or trouble her in the least.

playground studded with one of those

These hands hold nothing. They love most what is wild. They invite no pity

And she was wrong about him not loving anything. He loved his hoard, his fire, and his freedom to soar above the earth and the paltry beings inhabiting it. He loved his claws, his scales, his teeth… Landing

Art is the only place you can do what you like. That's freedom.

Every change is a form of liberation. My mother used to say a change is always good even if it's for the worse.

It turns out that playing it safe, at least in matters of the heart, is the most dangerous thing you can do. By that route, you become a butterfly pinned to the wall, with wonderful colors and all kinds of potential but going nowhere. Your wings are clipped. To really fly you must claim the courage to live out of your real self, the one God called into being.

When you taste a measure of being able to love and enjoy the people in your life, without having to have any particular response from them, you are tasting bliss. You can move out into life, and you don't have to have your parking ticket stamped by human approval to do it.

Some women run with wolves, but the majority would be much happier with your basic lap dog.

How many human beings remain in this world, unvanquished and at liberty in plains like these? So few, so few. Man was born free and everywhere he is in chains.

Vesey said there would be the men coming home, towns going up. That's the place for a free nigger, is freighting. That's what the free niggers did in the South, done it for years. White men don't care if you freight or barber. Now I don't want to be a barber. I'd cut somebody's ear off by mistake and they'd lynch me. "Don't make jokes like that," said Britt.

O desabafo é uma coisa louca. Umas vezes é tímido, outras é ousado. Não gosta da solidão nem da prisão do peito. Abandona o profundo e corre na estrada de ar, invade os tímpanos alheiros e encrava-se nos sentimentos de outrém.

Nas cidades humanas a liberdade é proibida. O ser humano tem que andar sempre vestido, documentado, calçado. Por andar sem rumo, a polícia prende por vadiagem, como se alguém conhecesse de facto o rumo de cada passo. Por que é que tem de se andar num rumo exato se todos os lugares são lugares para andar? Por que é que tenho que caminhar a horas certas se todas as horas são horas para caminhar?

Good girls are the ones who are most hunted, married, and shut away in their homes like treasure. They live in a box, without light or air, between love and submission. Bad girls are rejected and left free. They fly anywhere they feel like going, like butterflies. They lend nature the color of their wings and breathe the fresh air of the fields, between love and freedom.

There is no hate without fear [...]. Hate is fear crystallized, fear objectified. We hate what threatens our selves, our dreams, our plans, our freedom, our place in the world, our place in the hearts of the people we love. We fear first. Then we hate.

Bonnie saw ropes hanging loose, poles falling away, tree-tops sinking beneath her. As they rose, the sun rose with them. Its warmth turned the dark skin of the fiery balloon midnight blue. They flew straight up. Above them, the sweet, clear music of the lonely pipe called to them. Then the smooth sky puckered into cloth-of-blue and drew aside. They passed straight through...

Siempre seré libre, oh, padre mío, porque todo en mí está subordinado a mi voluntad. Así

Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize.

Let them be birds eggs has no soup

Would she ever dare tell him that no pleasure, no joy, no figment of her imagination could ever compete with the happiness she felt at the way he used her with such utter freedom, at the notion that he could do anything with her, that there was no limit, no restriction in the manner with which, on her body, he might search for pleasure?

The chains and the silence, which should have bound her deep within herself, which should have smothered her, strangled her, on the contrary freed her from herself.

Finally a woman confesses! Confess what? What women never allowed themselves to confess. What men always criticized on them: they only obey the blood and everything is sex on them, even the spirit.