Quotes About Reflection

She wondered whether Pearl wasn't right in her dire warnings that this relationship with Suzy would change her forever. It probably would. But perhaps she wanted to change. What else was life all about?

When You Are Old' by W. B. Yeats, which appeared in 1892.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face—' Her hand touched his, stopping him.

your own?' the boy asked. Stravinsky concentrated on

Thor was watching them. 'Gretchen says what we both think,' Thor said quietly.

A group of elderly gravediggers was working to reinter them, the men's breath condensing in the cold air.

But I think I'd rather be alone than be hurt all the time.' 'Loneliness hurts, too,' he said quietly.

What is it about the human face that it should be the most memorable thing in existence and yet its atoms are the quickest to disperse?

One can forgive but one should never forget.

When we're afraid, we lose all sense of analysis and reflection. Our fear paralyzes us. Besides, fear has always been the driving force behind all dictators' repression.

Everyone is always learning something new," my father would remind me when he checked to see if I was doing my homework and found me gazing out the window at the stars. "If not, why be alive?

Sometimes remembering means to live a moment in the past again, and in that way survive the present.

If any era should be aware of the temptations to rewrite history, it is our own.

But if we create our own Shakespeare, it is at least as true that the Shakespeare we create is a Shakespeare that has, to a certain extent, created us.

It had been so brief a sojourn, not even a full century. He had been a guest in a mansion and he was not ungrateful. He was at once exhausted and refreshed. His stay was ended. Now he must gather up the shabby impedimenta of his mind and body and be on his way again.

I'll walk off the rest of my mad.

Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.

He watched the sun rise beyond the grape arbor. In the thin golden light the young leaves and tendrils of the Scuppernong were like Twink Weatherby's hair. He decided that sunrise and sunset both gave him a pleasantly sad feeling. The sunrise brought a wild, free sadness; the sunset, a lonely yet a comforting one. He indulged his agreeable melancholy until the earth under him turned from gray to lavender and then to the color dried corn husks.

Being alone was easier. No risk, just loneliness. No one ever died from that.

Words are reflections. What we speak comes back to us. I prefer being told the truth, so I tell the truth. Within reason.

I outlived all the men who raised me. I stayed young while they faded, and died from bullets and disease. Or old age. You forget so much. You forget them. Friends. Family. You put aside what can't be changed. Like death. Until something small and unexpected catches you.

I had begun to keep a journal. Not for myself, but for the future. My bloodline. Every Hunter kept a record, meant to inspire and teach from beyond the grave. I felt sorry for the kid who inherited mine.

He stared at me and the unconscious priest at my feet. "Hey," I said awkwardly, unable to imagine what he was thinking. Don't do this when you grow up , I wanted to tell him. Don't be like me .

We women have a lot to learn about simplifying our lives. We have to decide what is important and then move along at a pace that is comfortable for us. We have to develop the maturity to stop trying to prove something. We have to learn to be content with what we are.