Quotes About Reflection

Two children he had had, and he had not seen either clearly. But perhaps no parent can truly see their child. When we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.

I sifted and resifted my memories of Aeëtes, all those hours we had leaned against each other. That old sickening feeling returned: that every moment of my life I had been a fool.

You will pardon me if I do not rejoice at being one in a long line of villains.

Know yourself is carved above their doors. But I had been a stranger to myself, turned to stone for no reason I could name.

After, in the torchlight, he wondered at the marks on me, the red around my neck, and the purple on my arms and chest where he had gripped me. He rubbed at them, as though they were stains, not bruises. "The color is perfect," he said, "look." And he held up the mirror so I could see. "You make the rarest canvas, love.

For sixteen years, I had been holding up the sky, and he had not noticed. I should have forced him to go with me to pick those plants that saved his life. I should have made him to stand over the stove while I spoke the words of power. He should understand all I had carried in silence, all that I had done for his safekeeping.

For a hundred generations, I had walked the world drowsy and dull, idle and at my ease. I left no prints, I did no deeds. Even those who had loved me a little did not care to stay.

I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room, loving him in silence

I touched the thought like a bruise, testing its ache.

whatever tears might have been in me for that lost dream had been parched away.

It was a trick of his, to set a sentence out like a plate on a table and see what you would put on it.

i had never thought of having children, but looking at him, for a moment i could imagine it

I failed him, yet he is a sweet wonder of this world.

A look passed across her face. I might have called it rage, if it were not pointed so inward.

How long would I cling to that handful of minutes, trying to cover myself as if with some threadbare blanket?

I had no altar, but I did not need one: anywhere I was became my temple.

It was as if we had found the still heart of the universe. Nothing moved except for us.

At first it is strange. I am used to keeping him from her, to hoarding him for myself. But the memories well up like spring-water, faster than I can hold them back. They do not come as words, but like dreams, rising as scent from the rain-wet earth. This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in the summer sun. His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this.

But a cracked heart was not enough, and I had grown wise enough to know it. I kissed him and left him there.

I forget about the god, why I have fallen, why my feet stick in the same crevices I have already climbed. Perhaps this is all I do, I think, demented -- climb walls and fall from them. And this time when I look up, the god is not smiling.

And perhaps, it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone Do you think? Perhaps, Achilles admitted

would miss them when they were gone, I knew. But I would find something else for him. I would help him forget. I would say, some people are like constellations that only touch the earth for a season.

he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.

perhaps no parent can truly see their child. When we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.