Quotes About Fragments

Y tu sueño... ¿se hizo realidad? –No. Se hizo pedazos. Yaren y Victoria

he smiled at her as though he had not with a single sentence blown the sane structure of her life into slithering fragments.

Somewhere out there are people who still know her poems, who've hidden scraps of them away in the folds of their minds before setting match to the papers of their hands. He will find them. He will ask them what they remember. He will piece together their recollections, fragmentary and incomplete though they may be, mapping the holes of one against the solid patches of another. And in this way, piece by piece, he will set her back down on paper again.

she returns in sudden flashes. Like scraps of half-remembered dreams.

A veces una mujer encuentra los restos de un barco hecho pedazos y decide hacer con ellos un hombre sano. En ocasiones lo consigue. Otras veces una mujer encuentra un hombre sano y decide hacerlo pedazos. Siempre lo consigue.

They exit one by one, or sometimes two by two. You scatter pieces of them on the snow in the woods and then run away as fast as you can, and then you turn and run back towards them, once they're beyond your reach.

Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time which every day produces, and which most men throw away.

Trifles make the sum of life.

Little by little they all gathered around him, entering through the cracks like moonbeams...[b]ut once the wind of misfortune blows, people disperse like little clouds around the moon when the wind blows off the mountains.

Everything you touch turns to broken.

They floated for a while, two flesher-shaped creatures and a giant worm in a cloud of spinning metal fragments, an absurd collection of imaginary debris, glinting by the light of the true stars.

Paul counted – and for argument's sake, tried to defend his own perspective, tried to imagine the outside world actually cycling through fragments of time drawn from ten distinct periods.

Order my life. I'm nothing without you: fragments of time, fragments of words, fragments of feelings. Make sense of me. Make me whole.

The mind swims laps, memory is cantilevered over genetic turmoil, and the writing goes on as if from unseen instruction, silencing, cleaving, and destabilizing words and thoughts, while the "hum" in me, the human, pushes fragments into the semblance of story.

He waited for his cup to be filled, then added softly, "We will pick our way through the shards of broken objects that folly leaves behind. And some of what breaks will be very beautiful.

The necklace of Al-Rassan had been broken then, the pearls scattering. Now they could be lost.

IN CASE YOU DON'T KNOW, safety glass can still shatter. They call it safety glass because it tends to shatter into somewhat-less-sharp cubes, rather than saberlike shards. Little bit of info for ya there. See? I'm fun and educational!

A rag and a bone and a hank of hair.

The emphasis has been on rights, not responsibilities. When it comes to piecing together the fragments of broken lives, we have tended to place the entire burden on the state and its agencies.

A dream is nothing else but a bubbling scum or froth of the fancy, which the day hath left undigested; or an after-feast made of the fragments of idle imaginations

It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.

If we may believe so good an authority as Edward Moor (author of Moor's "Hindu Pantheon," and "Oriental Fragments"), both the name of Crishna, and the general outline of his history, were long anterior to the birth of our Saviour, as very certain things, and probably extended to the time of Homer, nearly nine hundred years before Christ, or more than a hundred years before Isaiah lived and prophesied." [286:2]

like a mountain path that ends at a cliff I travel along the edge of your thoughts, and my shadow falls from your white forehead, my shadow shatters, and I gather the pieces and go with no body, groping my way

He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.