Quotes About Struggle

In the north, we remember, our grief had reasons: confinement and cold, the pipes frozen, new snow so deep you wake, look out, and sink back into the week-long loneliness.

And what good did it do? Squirrel and other vermin reckoned you hid grain in the ground just to dare them could they find it and dig it out.

That's how life was, death and birth, grub and harvest, rain and clearing, winter and summer. You had to take one with the other, for that's the way it ran. The characters and situations in this work are wholly fictional and imaginary, and do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties.

They did not realize what a supreme effort of courage it required to make this young girl go out alone into the wide world, and face its vastness and its strangeness.

Ernest Hemingway once advised prose artists to 'Write hard and clear about what hurts.

Ernest Hemingway once advised prose artists to "Write hard and clear about what hurts." It's good advice. But to follow it, you must stop reading.

I know I will have to do the right thing and return her to her father, but it is ripping my heart apart.

Viata pe pamant e ca un torent. Trebuie sa-l traversezi inot pentru a ajunge pe celalalt mal. Grijile de capatai ale omului de pe pamant sunt de a nu fi purtat de torent. De moda. De noutati. Doar animalele moarte, cadavrele, sunt duse de curent. Trebuie sa tii capul sus daca vrei sa inoti bine.

He Vows Every now and then he vows to live a better life. But when night comes with her own counsels, with her promises and her compromises, when night comes with her power over the body that seeks and yearns, he returns, lost, to the same fatal pleasures.

The Windows In these dark rooms where I pass such listless days, I wander up and down looking for the windows – when a window opens there will be some relief. But there are no windows, or at least I cannot find them. And perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps the light would prove another torment. Who knows what new things it would reveal?

If you're at the end of your rope . . . untie the knot in your heart.

But Alberta sat there wretchedly. God knows who put the words into her mouth. They were not her own. They were foreign to her, stupid words behind which she hid herself. Her own never saw the light of day, they died unborn or withered on her tongue and were born distorted. She was disabled, she was without the use of speech, she would die of muteness.

It was not altogether easy when one's daughters were too gifted, it really wasn't. Mrs. Lossius nodded in the direction of Harriet, who, well brought up and virtuous, was busy with the coffee kettle. "You can be glad, Mrs Pram, that your daughters are not gifted in any particular direction.

Sometimes Alberta felt as if there were a conspiracy against her, as if the whole world were in agreement not to say a word. A foolish desire to shake people – But speak out, can't you – would come over her. If she did not do so, it was because we really can remain on the verge of action for a long time without doing anything.

She had some kind of foolish and unreasonable notion that the more doggedly she stood, the more would she placate certain mysterious powers which habitually force us into circumstances and situations we hate and abhor.

Alberta was back again. Back to it all, to all that was warped and desultory, to the lies and evasions and small, hidden irons in the fire, to humiliation and hopeless longing, to the grey road of uniform days. To live in spite of it, to live on as best she could, with her two warring natures: one that willed, no-one knew how far - one that could let itself be bound any time and anywhere. To live and lie and listen her way forward, to seek haphazardly in her tomes, to wait and see...

There was something she should have experienced, something besides this. There was a path somewhere that she could not find. It was and it was not her own fault.

You, the foreign media, have been the companion of my people in its long and painful journey to freedom.

It is true you cannot eat freedom and you cannot power machinery with democracy. But then neither can political prisoners turn on the light in the cells of a dictatorship.

You have spent many lives and much treasure to bring freedom to many lands that were reluctant to receive it. And here you have a people who won it by themselves and need only the help to preserve it.

People say the 'Lost Generation' in a romantic sense, but I think it was tragic. They were really lost.

I'm always happy. But I often experience a bit of a wobble before I take off—a short period of time when all my doubts gang up against me.

He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.