Tears are another river that takes us home. We become alive with tears. There isn’t a chance to return to sleep when we are weeping.
…People are rivers, always ready to move from one state of being into another. It is not fair, to treat people as if they are finished beings. Everyone is always becoming and unbecoming.
The sky was as blue and delicate as a porcelain teacup, and the hills rolled gently in all directions, intersected occasionally with the silver ribbon of a river.
That's the way it is with the mind. Nothing is ever equal. Like a river, as it flows, the course changes with the terrain.
Like a good-looking John Merrick, mine was a face that looked really shit.
there are only so many things that you can fix with your hands. ...What they don't realize is I am not a thing to fix.
And perhaps, I'm a Tuesday night and you're a Wednesday morning the way we'll never even notice how we blend into each other.
She had to find her own story, and she could make it whatever shape she thought best.
I didn't like anyone except me having their hands all over him. There had been possession in Wolf's touch, and Adam belonged to me.
Mercy is not a proper Indian name."..........."Rash Coyote Who Runs With Wolf. We could shorten it to Dinner Woman.
Tears are pouring down my cheeks like tiny rivers, soaking my shirt with dark patches of my salty happiness.
Ambitions and dreams put you at a drinking table with unexpected companions. Cups were filled and refilled, making you drunk with the illusion of changing the world.
It had taken skill, tact, an ability to choose friends well, and a great deal of luck... Luck was always part of it, one way or another
Are writers the torchbearers of humanity? It’s a romantic idea, but it’s complete rubbish. We writers are the crocodiles in the river.
So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.
The Word is alive. We have always known it. But it needs to be uttered, aloud or in the mind of a reader. Without a consciousness to tickle them into life, those books were dead.
He heard the voice that had called to him in dreams, had saved him from the sands and from following his brother into the river.
... the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the ...
Whenever I didn't know what to write next, I put a swift river in front of his horse and sent the two of them across!
This is the real power of joy, to make us certain that, beneath all grief, the most fundamental of realities is joy itself.
Although we cannot command it, we choose joy, making a deliberate commitment to happiness (essentially another word for peace).
