I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breaths and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.
I think all artists struggle to represent the geometry of life in their own way, just like writers deal with archetypes. There are only so many stories that you can tell, but an infinite number of storytellers.
You can tell people the truth, but they'll never believe until the event. Until it's too late. In the meantime, the truth will just piss them off and get you in a lot of trouble
Any self-defense class worth its salt will tell you that you don’t pull out a weapon unless you intend to use it. The same should apply to ballsy remarks.
After telling me about her job, she asked me, “What do you do?” I sighed softly and asked rhetorically, “It’s sad. What do you do?
The air between them was electric, the scent of his aftershave was intoxicating and she could feel the testosterone bouncing off him. She could immediately tell he was a powerful man.
Escape was not our goal since it was so unrealistic. What we wanted was to survive, to live long enough to tell the world what had happened in Buchenwald.
I could never really manage to tell reality and my dream world apart, for the two of them co-existed together as they slid over top of each other.
If the Gospel of Jesus is relational, that is, if our brokenness will be fixed not by our understanding of theology but by God telling us who we are, then this would require a kind of intimacy of which only Heaven knows.
Homeschool history tells of more than two centuries of home-teaching influence on American education, although it has been largely obscured by the drawn curtains of conventional bias.
Let me tell you something: you can not write good fiction about ideas. You can only write good fiction about people.
Let me tell you something about meditation. At the absolute center, is the vortex we are spun from like clay, there is a shaping hand which is neither Godlike nor peaceful as you imagine.
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.
When I lifted up the skin, a fat kidney worm dripping with gore raised its bald, blind head and glared at me.
Smiling, he handed Landry the bloody aluminum bat Warnick had used. ‘Time to die, old man,’ he said.
She tried to argue, and tell him that he had mixed in his dull brain two matters, theology and morals, which in the primitive days of mankind had been quite distinct.
Macy: “In Truth,” I said, “there are no rules other than you have to tell the truth.” Wes: “How do you win?” he asked Macy: “That,” I said, “is such a boy question.
I can never resist telling people good news. I mean, why not brighten someone else's life too?
…there’s just something beautiful about walking on snow that nobody else has walked on. It makes you believe you’re special, even though you know you’re not.
You could try to believe what you wanted, but it never worked. Your brain and your heart decided what you were going to believe and that was that. Whether you liked it or not.
I suppose I'm in that very small group of people who are not waiting for their own story to unfold. If my life was a film, I'd have walked out by now.
