Quotes About Reflection

I don't know which is more nutty. All this stuff I do outside of work, or the stuff I do all week.

In the only way that pain can be truly remembered, through a new pain.

while she wanted to look neither to her past nor her future, she lived exclusively in both. They had took different paths, but they had journeyed, so she realized, together.

The Sussex lanes were very lovely in the autumn. I started going for long lone country walks among the spendthrift gold and glory of the year-end, giving myself up to the earth-scents and the sky-winds and all the magic of the countryside which is ordained for the healing of the soul.

When a relationship doesn't work anymore, it's terrible to stay with someone that you don't love.

The lovely effects of champagne were quite gone and only the nasty ones were left; the taste in the mouth, the splitting ache in the brow and the impotence of not being able to clarify one's thoughts.

Mary thought how strange it was to think that only a few inches of wall separated the placid cosiness of the sittingroom from the howling, streaming darkness. Houses were very defiant things.

I thought I was old, back then. I thought I was grown up. I didn't know all my big mistakes were up ahead of me, still to come. Always

I kneeled in front of the E M T chair, in front of the mirror on the medicine cabinet, and wiped the rest of the makeup away. My skin was raw, pink and new. The ambulance had a single round light in the middle of the ceiling. The light cast long shadows under my nose, ears, eyes, and chin, and in the shadows I was young and I was a crone, in the exact same moment. That's it, I thought: life is short. The only value of wated time is knowledge. p.295

We're mourning and celebrating at the same time, so drink.

All this I told Juniper, and she listened in the quiet, dispassionate way she had when you told her something truly terrible. It was as if she was joining things together in her mind, making some act of love and healing where otherwise all was violence and despair.

The journey inward is what gives meaning to the life outside ourselves. Not in any static, dogmatic, once-for-all way either, but in a way that grows and develops and changes to meet different circumstances, different stages of development. Contemplation is not an optional extra -- it is, as much as action, part of the very stuff of being human." 

I'd been right, even when I was in fourth grade and saw Sarah Keeler lying in her coffin: When you're dead, no one can hurt you. (228)

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry some days. But I really have worked hard to put a lot of the anger and disappointment in the past.

I never really did Christmas before. Christmas Day? I mean - what's that? What's it all about? I was always flying on Christmas Day.

a thousand songs that made people bite their lips and bob their heads, recalling a place they once lived, a person they once loved, a version of themselves they'd forgotten.

The packet of fading photos gives it away if you know how to look: always a rundown porch landing and stair rails behind, always a child squinting into strong sunlight and a grim-faced adult skulking in shadow. What must it have been like to grow up in that silence?

He had observed so many men just like himself over the years, men in retirement walking wee, quivery dogs over the streets of their neighborhood, a wrinkled plastic bag in their free hand;

Het gezicht in de spiegel was dat van een vreemde. En ze benijdde haar. Want dat vreemde meisje was veilig in haar wereld van glas.

tenía diecinueve años y me sentía como una anciana cuya vida ya había pasado. Entonces me di cuenta de que uno es joven mientras hace planes para el futuro y ese futuro es un misterio que le atrae, pero al que también teme. Cuando eso deja de ocurrir, es viejo.

En même temps, il perçoit soudain avec acuité ce qu'il est en train de perdre, une accalmie dans sa vie hérissée de violence, quelques heures de trève pour s'assoupir un peu, à vrai dire pas grand chose, juste de quoi rendre l'existence supportable.

I was certain t find the familiar sting of salt, but what I needed to know was what kind: kitchen, sweat, tears or the sea.

And so, like a courtesan, forced to perform the dance of the seven veils, I grudgingly reveal the names, one by one, of the cities that have carved their names into me, leaving behind the scar tissue that forms the bulk of who I am.

www.seattletimes.nwsource.com .