Quotes About Reflection

And in a way, this was how he had come to see his death, as a series of small ones taking place over the course of his life and leading finally to the main event, which would be so anti-climatic, so undramatic (a sudden violent seizure in his long abused heart, a quick massive flooding of the brain) it would go unnoticed. It was the small deaths occurring over an entire lifetime that took the greater toll.

A country where everybody always running from the next body feeling they's better. But mark my words, one of these days they gon all run out of where-to-run.

Her grandmother, as she gets older, is not fading but rather becoming more concentrated.

All he had was the story of his life, which was as good as any other man's, and in the end it is all we have.

At last she came to the old French houses around St. Louis Cathedral, and sat down on the steps of the cathedral and put herself in the hands of God. Any God, even a Catholic one.

The Lord sends to each of us some chastisement. Some burden, so that we may turn to him.

Os seus olhos parecem lua, que se mostra, que se esconde, que vai e volta. Ela sofre da doença da lua. A lua esta dentro dela. A lua é mesmo ela.

My first recognition of age setting in was exactly on my 36th birthday. I have no idea why, on this day of all days, I looked in the mirror and realized my face no longer looked young.

The worst thing about movie-making is that it's like life: nobody can go back to correct the mistakes.

Past is a place of reference not a place of residence.

I was blinded by stupidity for a brief moment in our life, for a flicker in the eternity in which you and I live, and I stumbled.

Alexander, my nights, my days, my every thought. You will fall away from me in just a while, won't you, and I'll be whole again, and I will go on and feel for someone else, the way everybody does. But my innocence is gone forever.

Where was he, her Alexander, of once? Was he truly gone? The Alexander of the Summer Garden, of their first Lazarevo days, of the hat in his hands, white toothed, peaceful, laughing, languid, stunning Alexander, had he been left far behind? Well, Tatiana supposed that was only right. For Alexander believed his Tatiana of once was gone, too. The swimming child Tatiana of the Luga, of the Neva, of the River Kama. Perhaps on the surface they were still in their twenties, but their hearts were old.

I want amnesia! I want a fucking lobotomy. Could I please never think again? Look what's happened to us, us, Tania. Don't you remember how we used to be? Just look what's happened.

When Tatiana had been a child in Luga, her beloved Deda, seeing her depressed one summer and unable to find her way, said to her, 'Ask yourself these three questions, Tatiana Metanova, and you will know who you are. Ask: what do you believe in? What do you hope for? But most important - ask, what do you love?

When I was in Colditz, that impenetrable fortress, whittling away my life, I wanted to know this." "Looks like you're still there, Shura." "No," he said. "I'm in New York, a fly on the wall, trying to see you without me.

She knew that alexander was sitting on the bench by the house slightly behind her, and that he was watching her. he was doing that more and more often. Watching her as he smoked. And smoked. And smoked.

Well, Alexander thought, any minute now, one of the girls he had carelessly discarded was going to come by the barracks with a gun and blow his brains out and on his tombstone the epitaph would read, "Here lies Alexander, who couldn't remember the name of any girl he had fucked.

To lead a life so wholly happy, so wholly unexamined that she could be dying, could be betrayed, could be besieged on all sides and never even know it.

I can't do it," Tatiana said "I can't walk down the streets of our life with you." "I know." They turned back to the reflections in the mirror.

When you're unsure of yourself, whenever you're in doubt, ask yourself three questions. What do you believe in? What do you hope for? But most important, ask yourself, what do you love? And when you answer, Tatiana, you will know who you are. And more important - if you ask this question of the people around you, you will know who they are too.

When he asked isn't it beautiful, my father was seeing his youth, and his youth was beautiful. He closed his eyes and saw himself young and so handsome, in love with many girls, funny, brilliant, popular. Of course it was beautiful. It was mystifying. It was mystical.

That's what it was. I had been given something I absolutely did not deserve. And only here in coming back did I realize what I had been freely given. Why was I given it? What was I going to do with it now that I knew I had it? I didn't want to go to sleep. I didn't want this to be my last night. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to understand, and after I understood, to feel better.

La memoria... esa cruel enemiga del consuelo.