Quotes About Imperfection

The main advantage of books over life is that they can be redrafted and redrafted, whereas life, alas, is always a first draft.

There was an old musician's cliché, about how there were no wrong notes on a piano.

Don't be a perfectionist. Humans are imperfect. Human work is imperfect. Be less robot, more human. Be more imperfect. Evolution happens through mistakes.

nothing is perfect and everything is perfect.

Comfort for me is not about everything being perfect. It is about finding comfort despite life being imperfect, being occasionally harsh and brutal. The resilience we find in the hard times is what makes us strong in all seasons.

Be happy with your own self, minus upgrades. Stop dreaming of imaginary goals and finishing lines. Accept what marketing doesn't want you to: you are fine. You lack nothing.

Be less robot, more human. Be more imperfect. Evolution happens through mistakes.

In nature,' wrote Alice Walker, 'nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they're still beautiful.

Even death was something Nora couldn't do properly. It was a familiar feeling. This feeling of being incomplete in just about every sense. An unfinished jigsaw of human. Incomplete living and incomplete dying.

Even death was something Nora couldn't do properly, it seemed. It was a familiar feeling. This feeling of being incomplete in just about every sense. An unfinished jigsaw of a human. Incomplete living and incomplete dying.

Una persona è come una città. Non puoi permettere che alcune zone meno belle rovinino l'armonia del tutto. Ci possono essere posti che non ami, alcune strade secondarie e sobborghi poco raccomandabili, ma le parti belle la rendono degna di essere amata.

To deny mess is to deny who we are. To see it, to allow it, to forgive it, is to reach a state of what Buddhist and psychologist Tara Brach calls 'radical acceptance', where we can appreciate our so-called flaws or imperfections as a natural part of existence. And then we can exist with openness and honesty, rather than shrink ourselves by trying to shut ourselves away like the contents of a cluttered cupboard. We can, in short, live.

A person was like a city. You couldn't let a few lees desirable parts put you off the whole. There may be bits you don't like, a few dodgy side streets and suburbs, but the good stuff makes it worthwhile.

But stories are like people, Atticus. Loving them doesn't make them perfect. You try to cherish their virtues and overlook their flaws. The flaws are still there, though. But you don't get mad.

If you look closely at a tree you'll notice it's knots and dead branches, just like our bodies. What we learn is that beauty and imperfection go together wonderfully.

We're all damaged. Every single beautiful, stupid, precious one of us. Damaged, damaged, damaged.

Good things come, but they're never perfect; are they? You have to twist them into something perfect.

Everyone's broken, one way or another.

If God has made the world a perfect mechanism, He has at least conceded so much to our imperfect intellect that in order to predict little parts of it, we need not solve innumerable differential equations, but can use dice with fair success.

Why replicate this world that has gone? Because it was so perfect? But it was not. But it was. Perfect because it was the world before the world changed.

Kako su ljudi nesavršeni! U svemu! Ne mogu da žive sami, postoje samo kao jedna polovina. Drugu traže, u ženi, u drugom ?ovjeku, u laži. Potrebna mu je ta druga polovina, a ništa ne za o njoj.

Gabriel is just a baby but eventually he will see the world and his father as they are: imperfect, dangerous, peppered with betrayals and also with love.

No one had told her this would happen, that her girlishness would give way to the solid force of wifehood, motherhood. The choices available were all imperfect. If you chose to be with someone, you often wanted to be alone. If you chose to be alone, you often felt the unbearable need for another body - not necessarily for sex, but just to rub your foot, to sit across the table, to drop his things around the room in a way that was maddening but still served as a reminder that he was there.

To be anorexic...she thought, amounted to wanting to shed yourself of some of the imperfect mosaic of pieces that made you who you were. She could understand that now for, maybe underneath that desquamated self you would locate a new version.