Quotes About Completion

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

great while ago the world began,      With hey-ho, the wind and the rain;   But that's all one, our play is done,      And we'll strive to please you every day.     Exit

Piece by piece, each fit perfectly until the puzzle was complete. It could not have happened without the help of an unseen power.

The maxim Nothing avails but perfection may be spelt p-a-r-a-l-y-s-i-s

All comes out even at the end of the day, and all will come out yet more even when all the days are ended.

All comes out even at the end of the day, and all comes out still more even when all the days are over.' —VOLTAIRE

Cái quan tr?ng ? ??i là ph?i k?t thúc m?i th? cho ch?n chu. Có th? ta má»›i yên tâm mà Ä'i ???c. N?u không thì lúc nào trong ta cÅ©ng ??y nh?ng l?i mu?n nói mà ch?ng bao gi? nói, và lòng ta s? n?ng trÄ©u ân h?n.

When I'm out on a long run," she continued, "the only thing in life that matters is finishing the run.

Cuando estoy metida en una carrera larga, lo único que importa en esta vida es terminar la carrera. Por una vez, mi cabeza no está diciendo bla bla bla bla todo el tiempo. Todo se calma y fluye. Soy solo yo y el desplazamiento y el movimiento.

In Greek, the words translated "it is finished" is tetelistai. It means, "The debt has been paid in full!

Even if the job you're assigned is not to your liking, a Matelon will see it done.

She expected nothing. She was in herself, the end itself.

They were fine and slender. At any given moment they stopped every bit as much lines, every bit much in the same state as at the beginning. Interrupted, always interrupted not because they terminated, but because no one could take them to the end. Circles were more perfect, less tragic and didn't move her enough. Circles were the work of man, finished before death and not even God could finish them better. While straight, fine, freestanding lines – were like thoughts.

The world began without man, and it will complete itself without him.

When does one stop writing? . . . I thought in the past that the work of writing was like other tasks; the tool is laid down and one cries out in delight: 'Finished!' and you clap your hands, from where there rain down grains of sand that first one believed to be precious . . . It is then that you read in the outlines traced by the grains of sand the words: 'To be continued . . .

All things in the fulness of time

geef me nu eindelijk wat ik altijd al had

Todos os rios correm para o mar, e o mar não se enche.

Every journey ends; terminates, at some pier, some mist-shrouded wharf, where torches are waiting.

The story of my own childhood is a complicated sentence that I am always trying to finish, to finish and put behind me. It resists finishing, and partly this is because words are not enough; my early world was synesthetic, and I am haunted by the ghosts of my own sense impressions, which reemerge when I try to write, and shiver between the lines.

In a way, the goal of all writing projects should be to "get the hell out." You don't simply want to finish; you want to finish as quickly and easily as possible (without undue stress or pressure, of course) so that you can move on to the next project—or, the rest of your life.

Whoever was doing the crossword was halfway through

The book is finished by the reader. A good novel should invite the reader in and let the reader participate in the creative experience and bring their own life experiences to it, interpret with their own individual life experiences. Every reader gets something different from a book and every reader, in a sense, completes it in a different way.

Three mornings later, after the dog walk but before my cereal and cup of tea, in the middle of my writing morning, in what I believe is the middle of a paragraph, I finish a sentence. I lift my pencil a few inches from the page and read it. It's the last sentence of the book. I can't think of another. That's it. I have my underpainting.