Quotes About Discovery

You see, love isn't just something you feel. Love is something you become. It's like - going to a new country, and realizing that you never particularly liked the place you left behind. It's like a sort of tingling and - oh, I don't know - when she smiles I just want to start clapping or something.

it is the uncreative who are most likely to confuse a mere lifestyle with a creative discovery.

Learn not only to find what you like, learn to like what you find.

The Japanese have a nice way of putting it: "The day you cease to travel, you will have arrived.

It is something that I discovered, a kind of symphony, a kind of orchestra that plays one melody in your presence, but when you depart, the orchestra doesn't stop. When I meet someone else, it plays another melody, which is also very delightful. And when I'm alone, it continues to play. There's a great repertoire, and it never ceases to play. That's what awakening is all about.

But are you listening for what will confirm what you already think? Or are you listening in order to discover something new?

Y cuando tengas que pasar a la siguiente situación, persona u ocupación, lo harás sin ningún tipo de sobrecarga emocional, y experimentarás el gozo de descubrir que en esa siguiente situación, y en la siguiente, y en cualesquiera situaciones sucesivas, brota también la sinfonía, aunque la melodía sea diferente en cada caso.

Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

A scientist's work is determined by two things: his interests and those of his time. Everything has led to this.

Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth.

Almost overnight, the streets glow with meaning. She reads inscriptions on coins, on cornerstones and tombstones, on lead seals and buttress piers and marble plaques embedded into the defensive walls—each twisting lane of the city a great battered manuscript in its own right.

Why, Esther wonders, do any of us believe our lives lead outward through time? How do we know we aren't continually traveling inward, toward our centers? Because this is how it feels to Esther when she sits on her deck in Geneva, Ohio, in the last spring of her life; it feels as if she is being drawn down some path that leads deeper inside, toward a miniature, shrouded, final kingdom that has waited within her all along.

Not-knowing is always more thrilling than knowing. Not-knowing is where hope and art and possibility and invention come from. It is not-knowing, that old, old thing, that allows everything to be renewed.

Whoever says adults are better at paying attention than children is wrong: we're too busying filtering out the world, focusing on some task or another, paying no attention. Our kids are the ones discovering new contents all day long.

Stranger, whoever you are, open this to learn what will amaze you.

She finds the ribbon she uses as a bookmark, opens the book, and the museum falls away.

sometimes the things we think are lost are only hidden

But seven-year-old Werner seems to float. He is undersized and his ears stick out and he speaks with a high, sweet voice; the whiteness of his hair stops people in their tracks. Snowy, milky, chalky. A color that is the absence of color. Every morning he ties his shoes, packs newspaper inside his coat as insulation against the cold, and begins interrogating the world.

There, thinks Werner when he finds it again, there: a feeling like shutting your eyes and feeling your way down a mile-long thread until your fingernails find the tiny lump of a knot.

Each of these books, child, is a door, a gateway to another place and time. You have your whole life in front of you, and for all of it, you'll have this. It will be enough, don't you think?

Grandfather, Omeir thinks, already I have seen things I did not know how to dream.

To know her is to realize the thousand forms of inquiry.

Gates were creaking open inside him - paths, long sealed off, revealed themselves once more.

raised dots form letters, the letters words, the words a world.