Quotes About Strength

Never bend your head. Hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye.

He touched her as though she were something precious and cared for. That was where the terrible power lay—not in his strength, not in some dark bespellment. His power existed because he could make her believe things she had cast away. Things that had cast her away. Things beyond reaching. If he could make her believe, she would be lost. She would never survive. The fear inside her head overwhelmed her.

The tears came into Christiana's eyes,

What is it like?

Hopeful kept close to him,

My deepest wounds and greatest strengths lie in my ability to see the potential for relationship in my life.

The history of women has been the history of a destructive kind of suffering, and I do not suggest moving further into that experience. My point is that walking away from pain altogether is equally as destructive. The debilitating suffering come when we do not allow ourselves to feel and work through our pain. Facing pain honestly and surviving gives us strength.

If feminism doesn't frighten people with power, it is toothless.

The hawk was everything I wanted to be: solitary, self-possessed, free from grief, and numb to the hurts of human life.

When you are broken, you run. But you don't always run away. Sometimes, helplessly, you run towards.

We so often think of the past as a something like a nature reserve: a discrete, bounded place we can visit in our imaginations to make us feel better. I wonder how we could learn to recognise that the past is always working on us and through us, and that diversity in all its forms, human and natural, is strength.

I learned that to harden your heart was not the same as not caring.

When you are broken, you run. But you don't always run away. Sometimes, helplessly, you run towards. My reasons weren't White's, but I was running just the same.

For weeks I felt I was made of dully burning metal.

Keep reindeer moss in the dark, freeze it, dry it to a crisp, it won't die. It goes dormant and waits for things to improve. Impressive stuff. I weighed the little twiggy sphere in my hand. Hardly there at all.

Old because her feet were gnarled and dusty, her eyes a deep, fiery orange, and she was beautiful. Beautiful like a granite cliff or a thunder-cloud.

The hawk was everything I wanted to be: solitary, self-possessed, free from grief, and numb to the hurts of human life. I was turning into a hawk.

I saw those nineteenth-century falconers were projecting onto their hawks all the male qualities they thought threatened by modern life: wildness, power, virility, independence and strength.

I saw those nineteenth-century falconers were projecting onto their hawks all the male qualities they thought threatened by modern life: wildness, power, virility, independence and strength. By identifying with their hawks as they trained them, they could introject, or repossess, those qualities. At the same time they could exercise their power by 'civilising' a wild and primitive creature. Masculinity and conquest: two imperial myths for the price of one.

I was holding a small clump of reindeer moss in one hand, a little piece of that branching, pale green-grey lichen that can survive just about anything the world throws at it. It is patience made manifest. Keep reindeer moss in the dark, freeze it, dry it to a crisp, it won't die. It goes dormant and waits for things to improve. Impressive stuff.

Being powerful is so much more interesting than being beautiful.

Dolly is both Cinderella and her fairy godmother, and she has no need for a Prince Charming.

i]We were fighting so very hard and achieving so very little aside from staying alive. BUT THAT'S EVERYTHING, my father wrote to me, when I told him that in a letter.[/i]

she was herself entire, and knew she could not be consumed.