Quotes About Fragments

The reality of the human condition is such that, according to Porter (and I agree), we must "salvage our fragments of happiness" out of life's inevitable sufferings.

I want to travel with an affinity that is discreet, diverse, loosely convened but moving with purpose. I want each book I write to be an affinity of sorts, and within it each essay or fragment in turn an affinity of ideas, images, moods and citations. It is not enough to want this—you have to perform it, and one of the perils of writing is that I may only describe my affinity, and fail to embody it.

The Anglican service today was more familiar to me from movies. Like one of the great Shakespeare speeches, the graveside oration, studded in fragments in the memory, was a succession of brilliant phrases, book titles, dying cadences that breathed life, pure alertness, along the spine.

Kulp saw something crumbling into ruins behind the lad's light-blue eyes.

Flowers are the hieroglyphics of angels. Loved by all men for the beauty of their character, though few can decipher even fragments of their meaning.

The glass shattered like a poor man's dreams.

Democritus wrote books on ethics, natural science, mathematics, and music, of which many fragments survive. One of these fragments expresses the view that all matter consists of tiny indivisible particles called atoms (from the Greek for "uncuttable"), moving in empty space: "Sweet exists by convention, bitter by convention; atoms and Void [alone] exist in reality.

Their hearts were as brittle as crystal shards, yet just as sharp and hard. They broke easily into a thousand fragments, and each of those fragments was a new heart, keen enough to wound and tear.

Taziel's clothes lay strewn around the floor of the darkened room, limp ghosts of his long body fashioned in fabric.

Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

Los juramentos eran un poco como los corazones: roto el primero, los demás resultaban pan comido.

But this is what happens when you come apart, the secret bits you knew about each other dissolve into nothing.

The vivid circumstances of his life at this date led him ever to remember the external scenes inwhich they were set. It was an evening of phenomenal irridations, and the west heaven gleamed like a foundry of all metals common and rare. The clouds were broken into a thousand fragments, and the margin of every fragment shone.

Occasionally, on purpose, Dr. Lecter drops a teacup to shatter on the floor. He is satisfied when it does not gather itself together. For many months now, he has not seen Mischa in his dreams. Someday perhaps a cup will come together. Or somewhere Starling may hear a crossbow string and come to some unwilled awakening, if indeed she even sleeps.

Lista este viaÈ›a. De jur-împrejurul marginilor ei scorojite se deschide pr?pastia.

In those days I learned the name Hesperides, and it was from these things that I unconsciously built up the vague fragments of a religion and of a philosophy, which remained hidden and implicit in my acts, and which, in due time, were to assert themselves in a deep and all-embracing attachment to my own judgment and my own will and a constant turning away from subjection, towards the freedom of my own ever-changing horizons.

We know we are a species obsessed with itself and its own past and origins. We know we are capable of removing from the sanctuary of the earth shards and fragments, and gently placing them in museums. Great museums in great cities—the hallmarks of civilisation.

open, hinges broken, wood shards raining all around

The glass of your life is darkened, and darkly through it you see distorted and ghastly fragments of duty and destiny.

All around him, in his house, everything consisted of fragments of beauty. Sometimes modest, sometimes valuable, these fragments combined to form a unique atmosphere of soft luminosity – the only one worthy of a cultured man, he thought. When he was twenty he had worn a ring with an inscription inside: This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever (Monsieur

Was it here, after all, that everything broke down and descended into a roaring shaft of shattered masks and crumpled rose petals and bloody feathers?

They disembark like pieces of broken crockery being poured out of a packing case.

Time's passage through the memory is like molten glass that can be opaque or crystallize at any given moment at will: a thousand days are melted into one conversation, one glance, one hurt, and one hurt can be shattered and sprinkled over a thousand.

I write down portions, maybe fragments, and perhaps an imperfect view of what Im hoping to write. Out of that, I keep trying to find exactly what I want.