"literature"タグの名言

Can you identify the source preventing you from feeling good every single day, from loving yourself unconditionally and making your dreams come true? Is it a voice in your head or a gut wrenching ache that compromises your inner peace and doesn’t allow you to accept the love around you? Is there one thing, or maybe many things, keeping you from forgiving your past and moving forward, tormenting you with lies like “You don’t deserve real love so just settle for whatever you can get,” “You’re not smart enough to achieve your dream so don’t even try,” or “Look at your past… you should hate yourself way more than you actually do!”? Welcome to your Little Monster.

Even if we try to conform to ideals and strive for perfection, we will always be pulled back to our core identity because it’s the path of least resistance for our souls – an energy force that wants nothing more than for us to honor and accept who we are and discover what we’re meant to do in the world.

There can be no forced inspiration.

Writers are decent people, they live quiet, normal lives while working to perfect their craft. They spend their entire lives, dedicated to creating art through words with very little recognition and appreciation. That artwork immortalizes their thoughts through poetry, short stories and novels, in the form of a book. That immortalization of thoughts through writing becomes their Legacy. Long after an Author has departed this world, his stories, his poetry, his novels will live on... As his/her Legacy. A Legacy for future generations for both, family and potential writers to reflect upon and learn from. A Legacy built on love, a love for writing. That's the beauty of writing, That's why I do what I do.

A book which is left on a shelf is a dead thing but it is also a chrysalis, an inanimate object packed with the potential to burst into new life.

Sleep is death enjoyed.

Aren't songs of grief lullabies to the lost?

كلنا نعيش بأسماء غيرأسمائنا ونفوس غير نفوسنا ، كلنا نتظاهر وندعي ونصدق ادعاءاتنا، كلنا نعيش أشخاصاً لا نعرفهم

وباء يهز أركان العمر، ثم حسرة تأكل القلب، والآن يتحطم كل شيء، كل شيء. لو لم تخرج في هذا اليوم المشئوم لو لم يرها الأمير، لو لم يذهب خطيبها للقائها، لو ولو، الندم عادةً غير مُجْدٍ. والمحن تحتاج إلى عقل مدبر وسريع الفهم والتأقلم

عاش حياته يبحث ويحاول الفهم، ولم يجد الرضا في حب ولا مال ولا نفوذ ولا حتى بلد وسكن، لم يجد الرضا إلا بين أركان أحلامه ومحاربة الزمن والانتصار عليه، ففي الإبداع يكمن الخلود، وفي التشييد تكمن القوة، وفي الرسم تكمن المعجزة، وفي الانتهاء من البناء الرضا والاستقرار.

كانت كالأرنب الذي يهم المشتري أن يمسك بأذنيه ليذبحه، تنظر إليه في حذر وتخاف النهاية المحتومة، اتسعت عيناها وهي تنظر إليه، كانتا عينين تستغيثان وترجوان، ولكنه رأى القوة لم تزل كامنة في الأعماق، ولم تختفِ حتى بعد المكوث في السجن

أفضل أنواع القتال هو القتال من أجل سلطان النفس، وليس سلطان البلاد، فسلطان النفس غوايته تدغدغ الروح وتشبعها

ابنتي... الكلمات هي ما تخيف الأمراء، كل الأشياء الأخرى لها حل ومخرج، أمَّا الكلمات فلها وقع آخر، احترسي من كلماتك في المستقبل.

لكل قوة شىء من الضعف ولكل يقين شك في البدء، ولكل عاقل نفحة من الجنون

The Moth and Its Beloved Ask the moth the beauty of the candle And it will burn without a confession There is a secret to its longing For it feels no fear or hesitation The moth is too much in love with the flame Yet it does not appear under the sun For the moon’s light is far too feeble, and It gave up on its pursuit of the sun Just a sight of a candle is enough To remind it of its real beloved So it settles for that candle in reach, Revels in its heat, and asks to be burned

What did I tell you, Fanny, about air-raids not killing people. Here we are, right as rain. My bed simply went through the floor, Plon-plon and I went on it, most comfortable.

I felt nurtured by literature's web of sentences, connected through them to this strange and dark universe.

Language is the key to the heart of people.

When the Washington Post telephoned me at home on Valentine's Day 1989 to ask my opinion about the Ayatollah Khomeini's fatwah, I felt at once that here was something that completely committed me. It was, if I can phrase it like this, a matter of everything I hated versus everything I loved. In the hate column: dictatorship, religion, stupidity, demagogy, censorship, bullying, and intimidation. In the love column: literature, irony, humor, the individual, and the defense of free expression. Plus, of course, friendship—though I like to think that my reaction would have been the same if I hadn't known Salman at all. To re-state the premise of the argument again: the theocratic head of a foreign despotism offers money in his own name in order to suborn the murder of a civilian citizen of another country, for the offense of writing a work of fiction. No more root-and-branch challenge to the values of the Enlightenment (on the bicentennial of the fall of the Bastille) or to the First Amendment to the Constitution, could be imagined. President George H.W. Bush, when asked to comment, could only say grudgingly that, as far as he could see, no American interests were involved…

I don't believe in ONE holy book. I believe all books are holy. Of course, some books are holy shit.