Quotes About Imperfection

All of us are imperfect human beings living in an imperfect world. We don't live with the mechanical precision of a bank account or by measuring all our lines and angles with rulers and protractors.

My biggest fault is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It's like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I've got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that's not the question, is it?

Si he dejado una herida en tu interior, esta herida no es solo tuya, tambien es mia. Ai que no me odies por ello. Soy un ser imperfecto. Mucho mas imperfecto de lo que tu crees

We're human, after all, and everybody's got something a little off somewhere.

I have a thing about losers. Flaws in oneself open you up to others with flaws.

I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of -- that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect...I find that encouraging.

Even so, everything was ever so slightly off, as if little by little the tracing paper had slipped irretrievably from the lines of summers past.

We're all wrong, every one of us.

I think it was the right move, but if I can be allowed a mediocre generalization, don't pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world? Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it'd lose even its imperfection.

Pero, si se me permite formular una anodina teoria general, en nuestra vida imperfecta las cosas inutiles son, en cierta medida, necesarias.

Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it'd lose even it's imperfection.

If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I'm driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of - that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect. And personally, I feel that encouraging. Do you know what I'm getting at?

Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start - the way a map that shows to much can sometimes be useless. Now, though I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts.

Somos seres imperfectos que vivimos en un mundo imperfecto

An imperfect person living an imperfect, limited life.

En definitiva -así lo creo-, lo único que puedo verter en este receptáculo imperfecto que es un texto son recuerdos imperfectos, pensamientos imperfectos. (Tokio Blues. Norwegian wood - Traducción del japonés por Lourdes Porta)

Mas, vendo bem, e se me é permitido um lugar-comum corriqueiro, não será que até as coisas inúteis têm cabimento neste mundo longe-de-ser-perfeito? Se desta vida imperfeita eliminássemos tudo o que é inútil, a imperfeição deixaria ela própria de fazer sentido.

There's no such thing as a perfect piece of writing. Just as there's no such thing as perfect despair.

Holding Naoko in my arms, I wanted to explain to her, I am having intercourse with you now. I am inside you. But this is really nothing. It doesn't matter. It is nothing but the joining of two bodies. All we are doing is telling each other things that can only be told by the rubbing together of two imperfect lumps of flesh. By doing this, we are sharing our imperfection.

Trouble is we end up being worse at saying things well. It's got to be an inborn fault. Naturally, everyone's got faults. My biggest fault is that the faults i was born with grow bigger each year.

Works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that very reason—or at least they appeal to certain types of people. Just like you're attracted to Soseki's The Miner. There's something in it that draws you in, more than more fully realized novels like Kokoro or Sanshiro. You discover something about that work that tugs at your heart—or maybe we should say the work discovers you. Schubert's Sonata in D Major is sort of the same thing.

With his nightcaps and the tatters of his dressing-gown he patches up the gaps in the structure of the universe.

I never professed to be perfect. I do something wrong or something stupid, I laugh at myself.

Even we can get things wrong sometimes.