Quotes About Patience

Durate, et vosmet rebus servate secundis.

Quisque suos patimur manes.

Still, life had a way of adding day to day

Well, we must wait for the future to show.

Leonard, always the years between us, always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.

As for my next book, I won't write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.

I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.

Never would she come first with anyone.

Wait for the dust of reading to settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk, talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole.

Must a kettle boil?

A good day—a bad day—so it goes on. Few people can be so tortured by writing as I am. Only Flaubert I think. Yet I see it now, as a whole. I think I can bring it off, if I only have courage and patience: take each scene quietly: compose: I think it may be a good book. And then—oh when it's finished!

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, forever desiring ---

You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance till I am sick of the virtues, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you.

One never gets anything worth having by post.

I've seen more trouble come from long engagements than from any other forms of human folly.

If I have to wait, I read; if I wake in the night, I feel along the shelf for a book. Swelling, perpetually augmented, there is a vast accumulation of unrecorded matter in my head.

The soul must brave itself to endure.

Knitting is the saving of life.

the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.

But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near'; And the white rose weeps, 'She is late'; The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear'; And the lily whispers, 'I wait.

Later . . ." her sentence bubbled away drip, drip, drip, like a contented tap left running.

I keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for someone to wear them.

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day.