Quotes About Struggle

I was wrenched awake at the tail-end of a stifled scream. I fought my way up from a deep dark dream. The scream had been mine.

Wherever there was a scrap of soil amongst the ravaged crags, emaciated trees struggled to cling on: a poignant metaphor for the way so many Nepalis eke out an existence, defiantly surviving on less than nothing.

The chip on my shoulder's a little heavy. I have back problems now.

You can't leave problems behind when they're inside your head." -Lynx

He groaned in mounting desire. "You're a dangerous woman, Calinda Braxton," he murmured hoarsely. "So are you, Lynx Cardone," she replied in a strained voice as she pushed away from him, fighting to regain control of herself. He caught her face between his hands, drilling his smoldering gaze into her matching one. "I want you, Cal," he stated simply. -Lynx & Calinda

If you were going to compete successfully in a white man's world, you had to learn to play the white man's game. It was not enough that an Indian be as good as; an Indian had to be better than.

Not poor? How can you sit there and say that with a straight face? Why I remember your momma told my momma once that your daddy got drunk and spent his paycheck and you had to pick up beer bottles alongside the road for lunch money and you had holes in the bottoms of your shoes. You had to line them with newspapers. If that ain't poor, I sure don't know what is.

She had been the daughter of a half-insane, mean old woman and an ineffective alcoholic father, and she had grown up poor and unwanted. She had been an unmarried welfare mother and finally become a drunk herself.

She remembered the old man in the bar in the Mission District telling her, 'We are the biggest tribe of all, us displaced ones, us urban Indians, us sidewalk redskins.

Callum gave Morgan a staggering pat on the shoulder. "For an ancient man, you can be foolishly young sometimes, cousin. Living with a woman who's had her dream taken away does not bode well for a peaceful union. Hell, it can be downright dangerous." "Yeah

I've labored long and hard for bread, For honor and for riches, But on my corns too long you've tred You fine-haired sons of bitches.

I'm telling you, it's fu**ing hard to be classy

She had storms all her life, but she died peacefully.

Quick, where is the Red Cross God with the ointment and plaster the needle and thread and the clean linen bandages to mummify our festering dreams?

All writers are exiles wherever they live and their work is a lifelong journey towards the lost land.

I will put warm woolen socks on the feet of the people in the other world; but I dream and cannot wake, and I am cast over the cliff and hang there by two fingers that are danced and trampled on by the giant unreality.

It is my trade," he said. "I work for the bean family, and every day there are deaths among the beans, mostly from thirst. They shrivel and die, they go blind in their one black eye, and I put them in one of these tiny coffins. Beans, you know, are beautifully shaped, like a new church, like modern architecture, like a planned city

The fact is, very few of us are real imposters. And it's different from play-acting. Imposterism or imposture comes from the core of your being because there's nothing else there. Your central being never develops a self; that's not a disadvantage, entirely, though you do have to fight for your point of view, almost as if you were dead.

I'm not there, she thought. I'm not there. I'm nowhere. She felt the world go dark with sudden exclusion and she was beating her wings against the door of the dark but no one opened the door; indeed, no one heard.

I did not know my own identity. I was burgled of body and hung in the sky like a woman of straw.

And so passed one morning and every morning and day but the people growing gentle and together, like old bulbs without promise of bloom, thrown to the rubbish heap and sinking in the filth and blindness to sprout a seperate community of dark, touching tendril and root to yet invisible colour of maimed flowers, narcissus, daffodil, tulip, and crocus-leaf stained with blade of snow.

1. Adult children of alcoholics guess at what normal behavior is. 2. Adult children of alcoholics have difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.

Food has always brought me comfort and the bingeing is triggered when I'm in a space that is not positive.

I've never experienced peace in my life, and I don't want to. I don't trust the idea