Quotes About Story

Pretty much always. We need to tell the story of our life to someone.

Your past is just a story. And once you realise this, it has no power over you.

There's al­ways the chance you could die right in the mid­dle of your life sto­ry.

When you understand, Brandy says, that what you're telling is just a story. It isn't happening anymore. When you realize the story you're telling is just words, when you can just crumble it up and throw your past in the trashcan, Brandy says, then we'll figure out who you're going to be.

That's what I tell peo­ple. My of­fi­cial ver­sion of the truth.

Where I'm at is a big Episcopal church in downtown Newark, New Jersey, sitting in the dark while I try to rescue the doomed bits and pieces of life, in the hope that a mere story can become Noah's Ark and deliver all the living things of the past to a bright and glorious immortality?

Even a killer needs to talk, to tell his life story, so bad he'll come and sit beside a grave or a rotting body and just blab, blab, blab at it for hours. Until he makes sense. Until the killer can convince himself with the story of his new reality. The reality that--he was right.

When you understand," Brandy says, "that what you're telling is just a story. It isn't happening anymore. When you realize the story you're telling is just words, when you can just crumble it up and throw your past in the trashcan," Brandy says, "then we'll figure out who you're going to be.

I'm trapped here, in a nosedive, in my life, in the cockpit of a jet-liner with the flat yellow of the Australian outback coming up fast. And there's so many things I want to change but can't. It's all done. It's all just a story now. Here's the life and death of Tender Branson, and I can just walk away from it. And the sky is blue and righteous in every direction. The sun is total and burning and just right there, and today is a beautiful day.

I'm trapped here, in a nosedive, in my life, in the cockpit of a jetliner with the flat yellow of the Australian outback coming up fast. And there's so many things I want to change but can't. It's all done. It's all just a sotry now. Her'es the life and death of Tender Branson, and I can just walk away from it. And the sky is blue and righteous in every direction. The sun is total and burning and just right there, and today is a beautiful day.

At the end of the day, your life is just a story. If you don't like the direction it's going, change it. Rewrite it. When you rewrite a sentence, you erase it and start over until you get it right. Yes, it's a little more complicated with a life, but the principle is the same. And remember, don't let anyone ever tell you that your revisions are not the truth.

Santa Claus is just a story, says Seth. He's just the opening band to God. There is no Santa Claus.

In our world of fake news…this world in which the internet has eroded the credibility of all information…people want to know the context of a story just as much as they want to hear the story itself. Context and source are more important now than they've ever been.

Think of a story as a stream of information. At best it's an ever-changing series of rhythms. Now think of yourself, the writer, as a DJ mixing tracks.

When you understand that what you're telling is just a story. It isn't happening anymore. When you realize the story you're telling is just words, when you can just crumble it up and throw your past in the trashcan then we'll figure out who you're going to be.

People fall so in love with their pain, they can't leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves. Some stories

It's worth noting up front that I have always conceived of my mind as a digestive organ. A stomach for processing knowledge, if you will. As a looping, wrinkled mass, a human brain unmistakably looks like gray intestines, and it's within these thinking bowels that my experiences are broken down, consumed to become my life story. My thoughts occur as flavorful burps or acrid barf. The indigestible gristle and bone of my memories are expelled as these words.

We ourselves, will resurrect the memory in order to savor it and carry it forth into the world. We will fling it at one another for laughs. Distort it. We will toss the story into the air at parties and howl over its ripeness. Degraded as it was, we will degrade it further. Make it more swollen. We shall render it impossibly awful, making of it the mythology of ourselves. A comfort. Proof of the trials we've survived.

Åžimdiden önce, ÅŸimdiden önce, ÅŸimdiden önceki her ÅŸey yan?mda ta??y?p durduÄŸum bir hikayeden ibaret. San?r?m bu durum dünyadaki herkes için geçerli. Benim yeni bir hikayeye ihtiyac?m var.

E há tantas coisas que eu quero mudar, mas não posso. Tudo está feito. Agora, tudo é apenas uma história.

Because everything up to now is a story. and everything after now is a story.

It hides the seams in narrative the way a strip of molding hides the junction where walls and floor meet. And it allows a person to think beyond each new drama, thus moving the story forward and allowing unresolved issues to pile up and increase tension.

Think of a story as a stream of information. At best it's an ever-changing series of rhythms. Now think of yourself, the writer, as a DJ mixing tracks. The more music you have to sample from—the more records you have to spin—the more likely you'll keep your audience dancing.

your past is just a story. and once you realize this, it has no power over you