Quotes About Transformation

Has it ever occurred to you that business as you think of it may have outlived its usefulness? Business has made its contribution and the world moves on. Business is just another dodo. . . .

I will say it one last time: Demonation! The feeling of it! There are no words -how can there be?- to describe what it feels like to become words, to feel your life encoded, and laid out in black ink on white paper. All my love and hatred, melted into words. It was like the End of the World.

I was cured in my new infamy of all the tired wisdom of age. I would never weary into that tired state again---I swore to myself, I would always be this raw, wet child hereafter...

You have to taste the sour urine before you break the jug.

The century's getting old and stale; it needs new tribes.

Was that the point about scattering ashes: that in the end they looked the same? Not just the snout and the tail, but a dog's ashes and a man's ashes. All reducible, with the addition of a little flame, to this mottled dust?

To be able to fly ? To be smoke , or a wolf ;to know the night , and live in it forever ? That's not so bad . You call us monsters . But when you dream it's of flying , and changing , and living without death .

She was so beautiful, you see. Not in any two-dimensional sense: she wasn't young, she wasn't innocent, she didn't have that pristine symmetry so favored by ad-men and photographers. Her face was plainly that of a woman in her early forties: it had been used to laugh and cry, and usage leaves its marks. But she had a power to transform herself, in the subtlest way, making that face as various as the sky.

Youth inhabits his face like a hermit crab its borrowed shell. He will outgrow his shelter sooner than he thinks. Only then will he know what it is to be naked.

Living and dying we feed the fire," Steep said softly. "That is the melancholy truth of things.

No. No, I'm not." Then she said: "I'm somebody else. I just don't know who that somebody else is yet." "Well that's what journeys are for," Diamanda Murkitt said.

Yes, fantastic fiction can be intricately woven into the texture of our daily lives, addressing important issues in fabulist form. But it also serves to release us for a time from the definitions that confine our daily selves; to unplug us from a world that wounds and disappoints us, allowing us to venture into places of magic and transformation.

We are all our own graveyards I believe; we squat amongst the tombs of the people we were.

Dream! Forge yourself and rise Out of your mind and into others. Men, be women. Fish, be flies. Girls, take beards. Sons, be your mothers. The future of the world now lies In coral wombs behind our eyes.

Here let me be quite clear: the primary impulse behind such creations is not escapism. That implies a kind of cowardice in the face of the world, which is not what inspires such visions. Quite the reverse. It is a hunger to see more clearly that fuels the true fantasist. A desire to express the world's transforming heart.

Men. Young men. Legal age, mind you. But young nonetheless. And it's not what you think. When we meet, we make … magic.

Imagination was true power: it worked transformations wealth and influence never could.

I wanted to be gone forever from being and knowing, which are the pieces of

And why not? The world made miracles like this every moment of every day: egg into chick, seed into flower, maggot into fly. Now man into fox? was that possible? Oh yes, said the House of the World. Yes, and yes, and always yes-

Somos nuestros propios cementerios; nos instalamos entre las tumbas de las personas que éramos.

As Harry marveled, the Cenobite continued his brutal effort of making new adjustments to his own flesh so as to fit the Devil's suit: first a slice off his other hip, down to the red meat; then up to his arms, slicing away the flesh at the back of his triceps; and passing the knife from left hand to right and back again, cutting effortlessly with either. The area around his feet looked like the floor of a butcher's store. Cobs and slices of fatty meat were scattered everywhere.

There was time for all their miracles now. For ghosts and transformations; for passion and ambiguity; for noonday visions and midnight glory. Time in abundance. For nothing ever begins. And this story, having no beginning, will have no end

Dorothea: What the fuck are you? Nix: A man who wanted to be a God...then changed his mind.

She was regarding her face in the mirror. She again had the allure that so captivated movie audiences. Gone were the ravages of last night's excess. Kevin had restored her face's artful mix of innocence and sex appeal. The sadness in her eyes was hers alone.