Quotes About Reflection

That's what I love. Not being interrupted, sitting in a car by myself and listening to music in the rain. There are so many great songs yet to sing.

Lucia began to write with the new pen on a green suitcase afternoons after tea hour during the loneliest hours in an institution of the type of Barnaderg Bay, between tea and bed—the dark and gloomy, often wet hours of the day for half the year, and the poignantly light and melancholy, also often wet hours of the day during the second half of the year.

As I walked by myself And talked to myself, Myself said unto me, Look to thyself, Take care of thyself, For nobody cares for thee.

Now you have more knowledge of yourself and the world; you are equipped to make choices, but there are none left to make.

All it takes is a single moment.

What, exactly, would you give up?

We all walk around with a stone in our shoe, Younger." William T.

If you know how to read, you know how forever. You can't unread.

Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully, lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life, and you shall make them known to your children, and your children's children.

The higher goal of spiritual living is not to amass a wealth of information but to face sacred moments.

I save every Christmas card. I keep them all.

I looked at myself in the little mirror. My cheeks were flaming-red, my arms were sunburnt, but another sun had warmed them. The hot passions of those days flowed in my veins, I felt transfigured, old, wise, knowing a thousand things of which I had been barely conscious. Strangely moved by the knowledge that I was separated from that life by only the thinnest vapour, I went downstairs, my little watch ticking the minutes, awakened from its sleep.

The smooth beeches held up their glass-clear leaves to the sun, and the light strained through them like water through a sieve.

I prefer to be left alone with my books.

If only they would all just leave me alone with my books and my letters, I would be content to let life, and the world pass me by

How sad it was not to know how happy you were until it was too late.

What's descriptive isn't necessarily prescriptive.

Before we open our mouths, we ought to heed the advice of the missionary Amy Carmichael and ask: Is what I'm about to say kind? Is it true? Is it necessary?

Prayer loosens the grip of envy on our hearts.

I was warm and dry and fed, the jonge Genever was happily chasing the red corpuscles in a game of merry-go-round, all the coloured threads were weaving themselves into a beautiful pattern and by day's end it would be over. I had never felt so good before. I was never to feel so good again.

I should have listened to Hunslett. Again I should have listened to Hunslett. And again for Hunslett's sake. But I didn't know then that Hunslett was to have time for all the sleep in the world.

Writers write about what worries them.

Sometimes it slanted against her window with a pinging sound, which meant it was close to hail, and then it was visible as tiny pellets for a moment on the pane before the pellets vanished and rolled quietly down the glass, each drop leaving its own delicate trickle. At other times it fell straight down, hardly touching the window at all, but still there beyond the glass, like a delicate, beaded curtain at the entrance to another room.

And perhaps I have tried too hard to be someone else without realizing at first what I presently am.