Words Quotes - Page 30

Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries,hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent.

I like the feeling of words doing as they want to do and as they have to do.

There is a certain quality to words that when strung in a certain way--has an almost hypnotic effect.

Always judge a man by the coloring of his heart and only his heart. Truth can be found in his record of actions, not intentions.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

We all have the power within us, to make something of ourselves, the thing is very few believe it.

Words are just words,Who they come from gives them Relevance,And this Relevance gives them the Power to Hurt you.Make those who Hurt you Irrelevant.

We poor tellers of tales have our moments too, it seems. Like great generals sitting upon horses upon the tops of hills and throwing troops into the arena, we throw the little soldier words into our battles.

The downtrodden who are the great creators of slang hurl pithiness and colour at poverty and oppression.

Beautiful are the words, that can express the innermost thoughts.

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?

I spent days and nights staring at the blank page, searching the deepest corners of my mind: who have I been, what have I seen, what did I learn? I thought about all the nights I've spent outside, all the times I laid down to cry and how I took a deep breath every morning and decided to simply go on. Because what else is there to do? Decide that this is it? I quit, I'm done? Oh if I could find words to justify those feelings I've carried. I could write the thickest of books with explosions of emotions from a young girl's lost heart. I could make you see, make you hear, make you feel, at least a tiny fragment of what's out there.

His words are so slippery they might slide right off the page.

People appear like angels until you hear them speak. You must not rush to judge people by the colour of their cloaks, but by the content of their words!

He had some taste for romance reading before he went to the university, where, we must confess, in justice to his college, he was cured of the love of reading in all its shapes; and the cure would have been radical, if disappointment in love, and total solitude, had not conspired to bring on a relapse.

Our own place is mall perhaps, but when your old man is eaten by his own shadow, you realise that maybe in every house, something so savage and sad and brilliant is standing up, without the world even seeing it.Maybe that's what these pages of words are about:Bringing the world to the window.

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

Words are only words

Words matter. Without words you can't have stories and without stories we would never have heard of the Greatcoats.

Words are loneliness.

Even though it may look like the wicked is gaining ground, God is still in control. We need to pray for our nations, pray for others, pray for forgiveness and mercy over people. We need to love no matter who we are talking to, whether they are Atheist, Moslems, Lesbians, Homosexuals or Pagans. We need to love them and share the love of God with them and not judge and see if we can rebuild our broken nations.

Home means always here...

The real trouble is this: giving expression to thought by the observable medium of words is like the work of the silkworm. In being made into silk, the material achieves its value. But in the light of day it stiffens; it becomes something alien, no longer malleable. True, we can then more easily and freely recall the same thought, but perhaps we can never experience it again in its original freshness.

I waited for the seasons of love to pass from this cold winter to the summer heat I dreamed of.

Rouge of my heart, intertwined with double-hued destiny,Thread of my thoughts, constant and rubicund legacy,Filament of my future, endeared unto my expectation,Cord of my emotion, seared with eternal elation.

Think about rethinking what you're thinking, before speaking the thought you were thinking, and cause unintended consequences for speaking what you probably shouldn't have been thinking.

Rain slips through your fingers as easily as words blow away in the wind, and yet it has the power to destroy your whole world.

Amphibians—the word comes from the Greek meaning ‘double life.

Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know more.

...but how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

Figures are the most shocking things in the world. The prettiest little squiggles of black looked at in the right light and yet consider the blow they can give you upon the heart.

I do not say words, which you want to hear.The words just told me, to write them down.

Perhaps reading and writing books is one of the last defences human dignity has left, because in the end they remind us of what God once reminded us before He too evaporated in this age of relentless humiliations—that we are more than ourselves; that we have souls.

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

If I had my life over again[, ] I'd have thought more about words. And thought about them earlier.

I want to do things so wild with you that I don't know how to say them.

Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.

Do you not realize that your kids are going to make mistakes, and a lot of them? Do you not realize the damage you do when you push your son’s nose into his mishaps or make your daughter feel worthless because she bumped or spilled something? Do you have any idea how easy it is to make your child feel abject? It’s as simple as letting out the words, “why would you do that!?” or “how many times have I told you…

Of all man’s instruments, the most wondrous, no doubt, is the book. The other instruments are extensions of his body. The microscope, the telescope, are extensions of his sight; the telephone is the extension of his voice; then we have the plow and the sword, extensions of the arm. But the book is something else altogether: the book is an extension of memory and imagination.

Half of me is filled with bursting words and half of me is painfully shy. I crave solitude yet also crave people. I want to pour life and love into everything yet also nurture my self-care and go gently. I want to live within the rush of primal, intuitive decision, yet also wish to sit and contemplate. This is the messiness of life - that we all carry multitudes, so must sit with the shifts. We are complicated creatures, and ultimately, the balance comes from this understanding. Be water. Flowing, flexible and soft. Subtly powerful and open. Wild and serene. Able to accept all changes, yet still led by the pull of steady tides. It is enough.

Six Stars,' he exclaimed. 'Finding the right words is hard!

I collect my thoughts, I choose my words, Whenever I decide to talk to you.But...I feel like a dumb, without a tongue,Whenever I reach in front of you.I wonder why it happens to me?even when my feelings are genuine and true.

All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.

Because someday, in one way or another, you will be taken from me or I you.

You are the owner and keeper of your word. Distribute them wisely.

Harper, treat your words with careFor they may cause joy or despairSing your songs of health and loveOf dragons flaming from above

My head is full of fireand grief and my tongueruns wild, piercedwith shards of glass.

He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world.She was the book thief without the words.Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.

And did the distress I was feeling derive from some internal sickness of the soul, or was it imposed on me by the sickness of society? That someone besides me had suffered from these ambiguities and had seen light on their far side... that I could find company and consolation and hope in an object pulled almost at random from a bookshelf—felt akin to an instance of religious grace.

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal—detrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?— of which the giraffe is the best example— the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; “the journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

The right word at the right time helps you make sense of the world. It helps, but sometimes not a lot.

Intentionally, or unintentionally, Kat had spoken with her eyes; tenderly and lovingly conveying a message to Freya that her tongue wouldn't let her speak. It was glaringly obvious they both felt it. The words were not important. The pauses, gazes, and drawn out breaths were what mattered.

He had walked on the beach and wished for icy winds to sweep away everything that sounded like mere linguistic habit, a malicious kind of habit that prevented thinking by producing the illusion that it had already taken place and found its conclusion in the hollow words.

Mark My Words, My Words In Other Words Are Not Just Words.

Among my most prized possessions are words that I have never spoken.

Words can hurt, but words can also inspire.

Words have consequences.

Love is one of those topics that plenty of people try to write about but not enough try to do.

I realize that people still read books now and some people actually love them, but in 1946 in the Village our feelings about books--I’m talking about my friends and myself--went beyond love. It was as if we didn’t know where we ended and books began. Books were our weather, our environment, our clothing. We didn’t simply read books; we became them. We took them into ourselves and made them into our histories. While it would be easy to say that we escaped into books, it might be truer to say that books escaped into us. Books were to us what drugs were to young men in the sixties.They showed us what was possible. We had been living with whatever was close at hand, whatever was given, and books took us great distances. We had known only domestic emotions and they showed us what happens to emotions when they are homeless. Books gave us balance--the young are so unbalanced that anything can make them fall. Books steadied us; it was as if we carried a heavy bag of them in each hand and they kept us level. They gave us gravity.

Speech is civilization itself. The word even the most contradictory word preserves contact - it is silence which isolates.