Quotes About Transformation

He had never seen her body so abandoned, so unconscious of all but the desire to be taken and satisfied. She bloomed under his caresses, no longer the girl but the woman already being born.

But I am not sure what this self is. For the moment I seem to be busy tearing down what I was.

You know I've always wanted to break the molds which life forms around one if one lets them. -Why? -I want to trespass boundaries, erase all identifications, anything which fixes one permanently into one mold, one place, without hope of change.

There are women's voices that sound like poetic, unearthly echoes. Then they change. The eyes change. I believe that all these legends about people changing into animals at night – like the stories of the werewolf, for instance – were invented by men who saw women transformed at night – from idealized, worshipful creatures into animals and thought that they were possessed.

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.

I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive.

That night Fay became a woman, making a secret of her pain, intent on saving her happiness with Albert, on showing wisdom and subtlety.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.   —D. H. Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study, pg. 20

The words we did not shout, the tears unshed, the curse we swallowed, the phrase we shortened, the love we killed, turned into magnetic iron ore, into tourmaline, into pyrite agate, blood congealed into cinnabar, blood calcinated, leadened into galena, oxidized, aluminized, sulphated, calcinated, the mineral glow of dead meteors and exhausted suns in the forest of dead trees and dead desires.

No moment of charm is born on bare soil, a careless accident of beauty, but is the sum of great sorrows, growths, and efforts.

Introspection does not need to be a still life. It can be an active alchemy.

Perfection is static, and I am in full progress.

It was as if in captivity, her brilliant plumage were losing its brilliance. She felt the metamorphosis. She knew she was moulting.

But before we go on, I want to explain to you why women weep: IT IS THE QUICKEST WAY TO REJOIN THE OCEAN. You liquify, become fluid, flow back into the ocean where the colors are more beautiful

it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately.

We are all engaged in the task of peeling off the false selves, the programmed selves, the selves created by our families, our culture, our religions. It is an enormous task.

I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That's what love does to intelligent women. They cannot write letters anymore.

he words we did not shout, the tears unshed, the curse we swallowed, the phrase we shortened, the love we killed, turned into magnetic iron ore, into tourmaline, into pyrite agate, blood congealed into cinnabar, blood calcinated, leadened into galena, oxidized, aluminized, sulphated, calcinated, the mineral glow of dead meteors and exhausted suns in the forest of dead trees and dead desires.

Are you sad? Do you want me to leave? - I'm not sad, but I'm blocked. My whole past seems to stop me. I can't let go. I feel as if I can inhale but not exhale. I'm just constrained, unnatural.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are. And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

We are all engaged in the task of peeling off the false selves, the programmed selves, the selves created by our families, our cultures, our religions.

I feel that an initial shock has shattered my wholeness, that I am like a shattered mirror. Each piece has gone off and developed a life of its own. They have not died from the shock (as, in some cases I have seen, women who died from betrayals, go into mourning, abdicate all love, never renew contact with man again), but separated into several selves, and each one developed a life of its own.

Será que o amor sempre acabava por se transformar em uma longa sucessão de sofrimentos?

She would crush me to ashes without hesitation...She will add the sum of me to her. She will be June, plus all that I contain.