Quotes About Connection

y en la democracia óptica de tales paisajes toda preferencia se vuelve caprichosa y hombre y roca terminan por asumir parentescos insospechados.

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name.

At one time I could have seen myself living there. It was built by my great-grandfather. I've seen photographs of it and it was quite beautiful.

Each man is the bard of his own existence. This is how he is joined to the world.

Above all a knowing deep in the bone that beauty and loss are one.

When the Papayuna is pining you need to call home.

Sheddan said once that having read a few dozen books in common was more binding than blood.

No, said the blind man. I do not mean in this house. I mean here. Among us.

Those people would take you in and put you up and feed you and feed your horse and cry when you left.

But someplace in the scheme of things this world must touch the other.

cada hombre reside temporalmente en su prójimo y este en aquel y así sucesivamente en una infinita cadena de ser y de testigo hasta los más remotos confines del mundo.

Suttree reached across the little space and took his uncle's willowing hands and composed them. I dont blame you, he said. I just want to tell you how some people are. I know how people are. I should know. Why should you? You think my father and his kind are a race apart. You can laugh at their pretensions, but you never question their right to the way of life they maintain.

The straight and the winding way are one and now that you are here what do the years count since last we two met together? Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.

John Grady rode through the willows and down the arroyo following the occasional bare footprint in the rain spotted loam until he came upon Blevins crouched under the roots of a dead cottonwood in a caveout where the arroyo turned and fanned out onto the plain. He was naked save for an outsized pair of stained undershorts. What the hell are you doin? said John Grady. Blevins sat gripping his thin white shoulders in either hand. Just settin here, he said.

I don't know what to tell you, he wrote. Much has changed and yet everything is the same. I am the same. I always will be. I'm writing because there are things that I think you would like to know. I am writing because there are things I dont want to forget. Everything is gone from my life except you. I dont even know what that means.

There were times I'd see [my brother] looking at me and I would leave the room crying. I knew that I'd never be loved like that again. I just thought that we would always be together. I know you think I should have seen that as more aberrant than I did, but my life is not like yours. My hour. My day. I used to dream about our first time together. I do yet. I wanted to be revered. I wanted to be entered like a cathedral.

One could even say that what endows any thing with significance is solely the history in which it has participated. Yet wherein does that history lie?

when you close your eyes do I go away? Do you?

having read even a few dozen books in common is a force more binding than blood.

The world is full of people who should have been more willing to weep.

They did not smell like horses. They smelled like what they were, wild animals. He held the horse's face against his chest and he could feel along his inner thighs the blood pumping through the arteries and he could smell the fear and he cupped his hand over the horse's eyes and stroked them and he did not stop talking to the horse at all, speaking in a low steady voice and telling it all that he intended to do and cupping the animal's eyes and stroking the terror out.

That's why love is so inseparable from any talk about truth and death, because we know that love is fundamentally a death of an old self that was isolated and the emergence of a new self now entangled with another self, the self that you fall in love with.

Anytime two human beings find genuine pleasure, joy, and love, the stars smile and the universe is enriched.

a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.