Quotes About Fragments

Unstrained, I sit and gaze, glare, survey, stare through barred windows encased in embroidered steel. Pearly frosted dust obstructs the channels of light, leaving only small pillars of fire, arranged in disordered fragments. The antiquated sallow walls are stained with crimson braids that wreathe and scuttle about the rimes and rifts.

trust is like a broken mirror, you may still see yourself, but you can never dismiss the crack.

If you cut a thing up, of course it will smell. Hence, nothing raises such an infernal stink, at last, as human psychology.

Most of my videos consist of fragments, one or two minutes long. They are haikus or sketches. I have thousands.

four broken eggshells, each half nested carefully in the other.

A bee!" Niero said. "What's a bee?" Tressa asked. The old fragments of Winnie the Pooh books came back to my mind. Pooh had always been after more honey, a golden, sticky, sweet substance that bees seemed to produce in trees.

Those who write them do," Ferus said. "They leave bits and pieces behind them when they lay down the words, some scraps and smears of their essential nature." He sniffed. "Most untidy, really—but assemble enough scraps and one might have something approaching a whole.

You can have a pretty good first line but not a strong enough thought to tag along more lines and sometimes in the middle words become bored and make war on one another. Notebooks are full of these fragments, shrapnel of our intention. Life is short on conclusions and that's why it's often a struggle to end a poem.

I've never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.

Like any collection of family photographs, it was a random selection that told only fragments of a story. The real tale would be revealed by the pictures that were missing or never even taken at all, not the ones that had been so carefully framed or packed away neatly in an envelope.

To be cool is to believe. To stay cool is to have the sweet fragments of serenity rock your wig away.

I think my heart has broken, but I have offered the fragments to God.

watching the sea as it carried to shore millions of fragments of the sun and cast them, cooled and foaming, on the sand.

You've always had a soft heart, son. You just hide it better than most. Danny shrugged. Starting to hide it from myself, then, I guess. Always the danger, that. Then one day, sure, you can't remember where you left all those pieces you tried so hard to hold on. Or why you work so hard at the holding.

Once I had thought I was whole -- had seemed to be able to love a man, to bear a child, to heal the sick--and know that all these things were natural parts of me, not the difficult, troubled fragments into which my life had now disintegrated. But that had been in the past, the man I had loved was Jamie, and for a time, I had been part of something greater than myself.

She was a very old lady indeed, or at least she looked it. She leaned on a hawthorn stick, enveloped in garments she must have

The mirror had broken into millions of pieces and the wind blew them all over the world. If a person got a speck in their eye, the person would only see the ugly side of things from then on, but if a piece got in their blood and it reached their heart, it would freeze into a solid block of ice and they couldn't feel anything anymore

we can not love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.

we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears.

Each new Clarice, compact as a living body with its smells and its breath, shows off, like a gem, what remains of the ancient Clarices, fragmentary and dead.

Meanwhile, in the satisfaction you receive from her way of reading you, from the textual quotations of your physical objectivity, you begin to harbor a doubt: that she is not reading you, single and whole as you are, but using you, using fragments of you detached from the context to construct for herself a ghostly partner, known to her alone, in the penumbra of her semiconsciousness, and what she is deciphering is this apocryphal visitor, not you.

Heartbreak is like shattered glass: while it's impossible that two pieces could splinter in precisely the same pattern, in he end, it doesn't matter, because the effect is identical.

It was like archeology. There was digging and there was dirt. And there was broken things.

Taking us by and large, we're a queer lot We women who write poetry. And when you think How few of us there've been, it's queerer still. I wonder what it is that makes us do it, Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise, The fragments of ourselves.