Quotes About Interpretation

What happened to the truth is not recorded.

El arte siempre tiene al tiempo de su parte

And remember, whenever you see a character in a novel, let alone a biography or history book, reduced and neatened into three adjectives, always distrust that description.

My reading might be pointless in terms of the history of literary criticism; but it's not pointless in terms of pleasure.

Cut privet still smells of sour apples, as it did when I was sixteen; but this is a rare, lingering exception. At that age, everything seemed more open to analogy, to metaphor, than it does now. There were more meanings, more interpretations, a greater variety of available truths. There was more symbolism, Things contained more.

Film-makers and actors can only show a version of the act, but writers can express what people are thinking, feeling, as well as doing.

If all your responses to a book have already been duplicated and expanded upon by a professional critic, then what point is there to your reading? Only that it's yours.

That's one of the central problems of history, isn't it, sir? The question of subjective versus objective interpretation, the fact that we need to know the history of the historian in order to understand the version that is being put in front of us.

The question of subjective versus objective interpretation, the fact that we need to know the history of the historian in order to understand the version that is being put in front of us.

One of my sons writes books I can read, but cannot understand, and the other writes books I can understand, but cannot read.

My brother distrusts the essential truth of memories; I distrust the way we colour them in. We each have our own cheap-mail-order paintbox, and our favourite hues. Thus, I remembered Grandma a few pages ago as petite and unopinionated. My brother, when consulted, takes out his paintbrush and counterproposes short and bossy.

If I failed to display negatives, then positives would be assumed: this was how it worked.

The parrot/writer feebly accepts language as something received, imitative and inert

Istorija yra žinomyb?, atsirandanti atminties netobulum? ir dokument? netikslum? susikirtimo taške.

How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but – mainly – to ourselves. Dear

This was one of the differences between the three of us and our new friend, We were essentially taking the piss, except when we were serious. He was essentially serious, except when he was taking the piss. It took us a while to work this out.

We all know objective truth is not obtainable, that when some event occurs we shall have a multiplicity of subjective truths which we assess and then fabulate into history, into some God-eyed version of what 'really' happened.

We were essentially taking the piss, except when we were serious. He was essentially serious, except when he was taking the piss. It took us a while to work this out.

Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't. I'm not surprised some people prefer books.

Knygos tvirtina: ji padar? tai tod?l ir tod?l. Gyvenimas tvirtina: ji padar? tai. Tik knygose viskas paaiškinama, o gyvenime ni?niekas. Nesistebiu, kad kai kurie žmon?s teikia pirmenyb? knygoms. Knygos ?prasmina gyvenim?. Visa b?da, kad jos ?prasmina kit? žmoni? gyvenim?, bet ne tav?j?.

she wonders whether the Holy Ghost, conventionally represented as a dove, would not be better portrayed as a parrot. Logic is certainly on her side: parrots and Holy Ghosts can speak, whereas doves cannot.

This was another skill women were meant to learn: when a man's story had come to an end. Mostly, it wasn't a problem, as the end was thumpingly obvious; or else the narrator started snorting with laughter in advance, which was always a pretty good clue. Martha had long ago decided only to laugh at things she found funny. It seemed a normal sort of rule; but most men found it rebuking.

The government had been talking about sexually transmitted disease. But it was the same with words: they too could be sexually transmitted.

When all else failed, when there seemed to be nothing but nonsense in the world, he held to this: that good music would always be good music, and great music was impregnable. You could play Bach's preludes and fugues at any tempo, with any dynamics, and they would still be great music, proof even against the wretch who brought ten thumbs to the keyboard. And in the same way, you could not play such music cynically.