Quotes About Fragments

Whenever Ter read a book, rarely—he would rip each page off and throw it away. I would come home, to where the windows were always open or broken and the whole room would be swirling with pages, like Safeway lot pigeons.

We imagine that we remember things as they were, while in fact all we carry into the future are fragments which reconstruct a wholly illusory past. That first death we witness will always be a murmur of voices down a corridor and a clock falling silent in the darkened room, the end of love is forever two spent cigarettes in a saucer and a white door closing.

This, I told myself, this is the way I shall be condemned to pass my days, turning over words, stray lines, fragments of memory, to see what might be lurking underneath them, as if they were so many flat stones, while I steadily faded.

And sometimes then he sat with us for an hour or so, sharing our limbo, listening while I read. Books from any shelf, opened at any page, in which I would start and finish anywhere, mid-sentence sometimes. Wuthering Heights ran into Emma, which gave way to The Eustace Diamonds, which faded into Hard Times, which ceded to The Woman in White. Fragments. It didn't matter. Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words, on the other hand, were a lifeline.

A hundred canes shattered in the sun, like a load of antihistamines falling out of an airplane.

how strange to find that the present contained such a bright shard of the living past, damaged and eroded but not destroyed.

And–since this willful amnesia had kept Robin's death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form–the memory of that day's events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirror-shards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.

or rather, how strange to find that the present contained such a bright shard of the living past, damaged and eroded but not destroyed.

disordered clumps, wrongly beautiful, like a scan of a damaged brain

The life he'd known now seemed capable of multiple, even infinite shatterings.

If I could do it, I'd do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech, pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of excrement…. A piece of the body torn out by the root might be more to the point.

Ubrzo je nanovo utvrdio da je njegova egzistencija sa?injena od fragmenata koji se me?usobno ne uklapaju, i svaki pokušaj da im se utvrdi neki redosljed bio bi jednak samotnoj igri na sre?u.

Daqui a pouco ficarei em cacos na sua mão - balbuciou. E como sentisse que ele afrouxava o braço, animou-o novamente. - Mas eu quero que seja assim.

The mirror that Strindberg held up to Nature was a cracked one. It was cracked in a double sense -- it was crazy. It gave back broken images of a world which it made look like the chaos of a lunatic dream.

There are just tiny fragments of pleasure and luxury in the world, and there is something unpatriotic about enjoying them.

She is hollowed out, her edges blurred and insubstantial. She might disintegrate, break apart, like a raindrop hitting a leaf.

Il suffit de cesser de croire une seule seconde pour que le rêve se brise en mille morceaux

There is not a fragment in all nature, for every relative fragment of one thing is a full harmonious unit in itself.

and now she was looking like a grenade went off in a drawer of metallic ribbons.

Swann immediately recognized this statement as one of those fragments of true fact with which liars, when caught unprepared, console themselves by introducing into the composition of the falsehood they are inventing,

You have the sense that you're the one making the world go round. Everyone speaks in fragments, but for an instant those fragments are a catalyst, my self is erased and it brings on a wave of pure ecstasy, that instant in the drug.

She always attempted to be orderly, to catalogue her thoughts and feelings, so that when the awful, anarchic inner voice caught her out, her mind was stocked with efficacious replies. "What am I doing here?" could be answered with lists. She had another stock of replies to "Who the hell do you think you are, attempting to be alive?" She justified herself by saying that she was of service, that she ordered fragments of other lives.

My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

Pieces" Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more? Am I just as full as anyone else? Enough? Pieces. Allys saying "I like you" Gabriel snorting out bread freeing me to laugh. And Ethan reminding me how much I do know. Pieces. I hold them likethey are life itself. They nearly are.