Quotes About Hidden

We did not know she was sick, but she has come to the fence, walking like a woman who is balancing a sword inside of her body.

Understand, I am always trying to figure out what the soul is, and where hidden, and what shape

I always said there were plenty of things going on here, right under our noses, that we couldn't see, she said, holding out her apron. I don't see with my nose, I remarked. What have you got there?

What I still can't hear, after all these years, is the specific tip of the hat Steve hid in a countermelody in the title song: "Hank and Mary get into town tomorrow.

The moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places.

Al final llega el día en el que el dolor es más bien una complacencia que una necesidad, y la sonrisa que juega en los labios, aunque parezca un maldito sacrilegio, ya no se oculta.

How true! Life's problems are like trees. We see the trunk, we see the branches and the leaves. But we can't see the roots, hidden deep down under the ground. And yet it is their shape and nature and how far they dig into the slimy humus to search for water that we need to know. Then perhaps we would understand.

Perché invero che cosa c'è da sapere su chi scompare? Che cosa c'è da sapere su chi è diventato invisibile? Che cosa c'è da sapere su chi sta sanguinando con la bocca piena di foglie scure?

To other people, it sometimes seems like nothing at all. You are walking around with your head on fire and no one can see the flames.

It is always in the parts that we cannot fully understand - the holes in a story, the piece missing - where the real truth of the thing lurks...

History is full of other hidden foundations too long unexamined, old ways that people could not part with, practices about which they were proud and sure and defiant when they should have been ashamed.

After that, I felt like I had two lives. There was the me I had been before the attack, the one people knew and wanted to relate to. The one people wanted to comfort and fix. And there was another me, a hidden me that no one ever saw. There was a me who had tasted death. That me knew things others people didn't know.

I know no one is perfect, that behind every facade of perfection is a writhing mess of subterfuge and secret sorrows... but even taking that into account, Noah was pretty much perfect.

Yeah. She said that there was weird shit in the walls at Ellingham. Things and hollow spaces. Stuff. She'd found things. Shit in the walls.

I know what it's like when you can't solve something. It takes over your mind. She used her skills as a researcher and she got records and reports. She couldn't tell the rest of you what she was doing, because she had no idea who to trust. She kept her investigation hidden from everyone, but then she had to get an operation, and she's given painkillers. The painkillers made her loopy.

When robbery is done in open daylight by sanction of the law, as it is done today, then any act of honor or restitution has to be hidden underground.

We do not read in order to turn great works of fiction into simplistic replicas of our own realities, we read for the pure, sensual, and unadulterated pleasure of reading. And if we do so, our reward is the discovery of the many hidden layers within these works that do not merely reflect reality but reveal a spectrum of truths, thus intrinsically going against the grain of totalitarian mindsets.

Again and again as we discussed Lolita in that class, our discussions were colored by my students' hidden personal sorrows and joys. Like tearstains on a letter, these forays into the hidden and the personal shaded all our discussions of Nabokov. And more and more I thought of that butterfly; what linked us so closely was this perverse intimacy of victim and jailer.

This is how I read Lolita. Again and again as we discussed Lolita in that class, our discussions were colored by my students' hidden personal sorrows and joys. Like tearstains on a letter, these forays into the hidden and the personal shaded all our discussions of Nabokov. And more and more I thought of that butterfly; what linked us so closely was this perverse intimacy of victim and jailer.

Aku tersandung pada salah satu rahasia yang tersimpan dengan baik tentang orang-orang kulit hitam: kebanyakan orang kulit hitam tidak tertarik dengan revolusi; kebanyakan kami merasa lelah dengan masalah ras.

Power. The word fixed in my mother's mind like a curse. In America, it had generally remained hidden from view until you dug beneath the surface of things; until you visited an Indian reservation or spoke to a black person whose trust you had earned. But here power was undisguised, indiscriminate, naked, always fresh in the memory.

The most important part of a story is the piece of it you don't know.

Soli, let me tell you. The most important thing about a person is always the thing you don't know.

Probe deeply enough, under the slickest façade of confidence, and you tapped a vein of self-doubt or a hidden fear. Irrational fears and baseless doubts, many of them, but that was precisely why constant reassurance was necessary to the human animal.