Quotes About Fragments

I'd love to have the time to learn to sing opera properly rather than bellowing half-formed fragments of melody in exuberant moments.

Nicole's world had fallen to pieces, but it was only a flimsy and scarcely created world; beneath it her emotions and instincts fought on.

La propia ciudad, a pesar de que ella se hubiese ido estaba impregnada de una belleza melancólica [...] Alargó la mano desesperadamente como para atrapar solo una brizna de aire, para salvar un fragmento del lugar que ella había hecho precioso para él. Pero todo pasaba demasiado deprisa ya para sus ojos empañados y supo que había perdido para siempre aquella parte que era la más pura y la mejor.

I shall die as I have lived, surrounded by bric-a-brac, sold by weight among the postscripts added to lost things.

All that I've had is like this high and diversely identical sky, tatters of nothing tinged by a distang light, fragments of pseudo-life gilded by death from afar with its sad smile of whole truth. All I've had has amounted to my not knowing how to search, like a feudal lord of swamps at twilight, solitary prince of a city of empty tombs.

All that I've had is like this high and diversely identical sky, tatters of nothing tinged by a distant light, fragments of pseudo-life gilded by death from afar with its sad smile of whole truth. All I've had has amounted to my not knowing how to search, like a feudal lord of swamps at twilight, solitary prince of a city of empty tombs.

You have a diasporic black world, and the only way to put it back together again is symbolic. It's like Humpty Dumpty. Whoever could edit the 'Encyclopedia Africana' would provide symbolic order to the fragments created over the past 500 years. That is a major contribution.

We live in the mind, in ideas, in fragments. We no longer drink in the wild outer music of the streets - we remember only.

Perspective in art has receded along with harmony in music: We tend more and more to see the world as a heap of intrinsically meaningless fragments.

The male ego is a terrifying, terrifying thing, you know? If it's shattered, it becomes even more dangerous.

We think our brain is a marble mausoleum, when in fact it's a house made of cardboard boxes, a shack stranded between an empty field and an endless dusk.

The last scroll was rolled so tight it seemed almost solid. Likely it was the oldest. As I forced it open it broke in pieces: two, three, and eventually five. I regretted doing it, but it was the only way to read it. If it had stayed coiled much longer, it would have crumbled into bits, never to be read again.

But things don't just fall apart. People break them.

...Science and mathematics Run parallel to reality, they symbolize it, they squint at it, They never touch it: consider what an explosion Would rock the bones of men into little white fragments and unsky the world If any mind for a moment touch truth.

and scattering onto the floor.

Sometimes he awoke with a feeling of fragments afloat in his sleep, but he couldn't seem to grasp them and put them together into something worthy of telling at the ritual.

How was your bone-replacement surgery? asked Illyan. About what I expected, from having my legs done before. The ugliest part was opening my right arm and hand up to pick out all the bone fragments. Tedious. The left went a lot faster — the pieces were bigger.

bottles and ate the glass? Maria, who thought that she was

The buzzard could not reason but he knew the patterns that led to food. His entire life was built upon such fragments of knowledge and he knew that where such groups of men rode, death rode with them.

The camera sees broken windows.

Glass, China, and Reputation, are easily cracked, and never well mended.

It was a moment made of glass, this happiness; it was the easiest thing in the world to break. Every minute was a world, every hour a universe.

like the small votives they lit in church.) Sometimes the houses were deserted, even partially destroyed. Sometimes it seemed the families must still be upstairs. There were old bicycles in some, or baby carriages. A steamer trunk, once, filled with broken dishes. A jar of pickled cauliflower.

The paper detritus that she had somewhere read, or had heard it said, trails armies, or was it (she had seen a photograph) the scraps of letters and wrappers and snapshots that blow across battlefields after all but the dead have fled?