Quotes About Struggle

He doesn't know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won't light.

The hills and trees before me, the worms and lions, stones and tender buds, Daedalus' loom, all wavered as if they were a fraying dream. Beneath them was the place I truly dwelt, a cold eternity of endless grief.

Daedalus had said to me once: Even the best iron grows brittle with too much beating.

I did not go easy to motherhood. I faced it as soldiers face their enemies, girded and braced, sword up against the coming blows. Yet all my preparations were not enough.

I was a gray space filled up with nothing. What could I say? One of us must grieve. I would not let it be him.

I covered myself with my hands and made soft noises like a child. Blush, blush, I prayed. Blush for him, or he will kill you. And I was fortunate, for it was warm in the room, and I was angry, and ashamed too,

How long would I cling to that handful of minutes, trying to cover myself as if with some threadbare blanket?

I forget about the god, why I have fallen, why my feet stick in the same crevices I have already climbed. Perhaps this is all I do, I think, demented -- climb walls and fall from them. And this time when I look up, the god is not smiling.

They gave her to a mortal, trying to shackle the child's power. Dilute him with humanity, diminish him.

those who fight against prophecy only draw it more tightly around their throats.

They will seek to undermine you at every turn.

I had made so many mistakes that I could not find my way back through their tangle to the first one.

There was violence in that room, with so many princes and heroes and kings competing for a single prize, but we knew how to ape civilization.

Men's faces are heavy with anger, but there are no more fights—it is too hot. They lie in the dark and hate each other.

They never let you be famous AND happy.

If they break through the wall, they will burn the ships—our only way of getting home, the only thing that makes us an army instead of refugees.

I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unravelling them again at night, making nothing.

I had found a way through the endless corridors of his pride and fury.

No wonder I had been so slow, I thought. All this while I had been a weaver without wool, a ship without sea. Yet look where I sail.

He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus' wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.

I let the pebbles tumble to the ground from my fingers, where they lie, haphazard or purposeful, an augury or an accident. If Chiron were here, he could read them, tell us our fortunes. But he is not here. "What if he will not beg?" I ask. "Then he will die. They will all die. I will not fight until he does." His chin juts, bracing for reproach. I am worn out. My arm hurts where I cut it, and my skin feels coated with unwholesome sweat. I do not answer.

Même le meilleur des fers devient cassant à force d'avoir été trop battu.

Name one hero who was happy - You can't." "I can't." "I know. They never let you become famous and happy - I'll tell you a secret." "Tell me." "I'm going to be the first.

Useless information is my curse, I'm afraid