Quotes About Complexity

Sometimes solutions aren't so simple; sometimes goodbye's the only way.

What I have always loved most in men is imperfection.

A name can't begin to encompass the sum of all her parts. But that's the magic of names, isn't it? That the complex, contradictory individuals we are can be called up complete and whole in another mind through the simple sorcery of a name.

I am a bundle of other people's histories, a creature of circumstance.

I seem to remember even from when I was very young that when you loved someone you also hated them for making you love them, since loving someone is so incredibly humiliating.

The word love was required to cover such a range of emotions that it almost meant nothing at all. Since the love we distill for each beloved conforms to such a specific, rarefied recipe, with varying soupcons of resentment, pity, or lust, and sometimes even pinches of dislike, you really needed as many different words for the feeling as there were people whom you cared for in your life.

She loved him, but that wasn't good enough. The word "love" was required to cover such a range of emotions that it almost meant nothing at all. Since the love we distill for each beloved conforms to such a specific, rarefied recipe, with varying soupcons of resentment, pity, or lust, and sometimes even pinches of dislike, you really needed as many different words for the feeling as there were people whom you cared for in your life.

Real love shares more in common with hatred and rage than it does with geniality or politeness

De qué me gustaría huir? De la complejidad. De la angustia. De esa sensación que he tenido toda la vida de que en cualquier momento hay algo que olvido, un detalle, una obligación, algo que se supone que tendría que estar haciendo o que ya debería haber hecho. Es una sensación que no me deja en paz, me levanto con ella por la mañana y no se me va en todo el día. Me voy a dormir con esa sensación.

It was peculiar how the more you got to know someone, the more you grew to appreciate how little you knew, how little you had ever known- as if progressive intimacy didn't involve becoming more perceptive, but growing only more perfectly ignorant.

rills ran deeper—so that if you could compare them to ice cream, it was more to the sort so hard that you couldn't ram a spoon into the carton.

It's queer how the thing what attracted you to someone is the same as what you come to despise about them

Literature is the human activity that make the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility, complexity, and difficulty.

Literature is the human activity that takes the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility, complexity, and difficulty.

Nothing is easier than to simplify life and them make a philosophy about it. The trouble is that the resulting philosophy is true only of that simplified life.

When distant and unfamiliar and complex things are communicated to great masses of people, the truth suffers a considerable and often a radical distortion. The complex is made over into the simple, the hypothetical into the dogmatic, and the relative into an absolute.

Love is a tempestuous mistress. And none of us shall ever master her.

More than we realize, girls understand us to be saying that they must always be utterly and completely forthright. That's a problem, especially when we combine it with the cultural injunction to be agreeable. A girl can't actually accomplish both because, like any other human, every girl contains a world of complicated thoughts and feelings. She cannot possibly be simultaneously see-through and utterly pleasing to others.

What I learned is that it's arrogant to be certain of anything. The world is a complex place and only idiots or assholes think they know it all.

Well, that's the thing about knots, isn't it? If you don't know the trick, it's a muddled predicament. But in fact each loop of every knot is carefully placed, one end twisting into the other in a way you might not have expected. I find them rather beautiful, really.

People could look and see just a man, but in the same glance, the answer to all their problems.

The blackness faded over the years, but it never went away. Sometimes a good day might feel grey. But nothing ever felt white. Not ever.

It was finally becoming clear to her that love wasn't about finding someone perfect to marry. Love was about seeing through to the truth of a person, and accepting all their shades of light and dark. Love was an ability.

Sometimes a simple question could have a complicated answer.