"words"タグの名言

Being a nurse, I’m well trained in being careful with the language that I use. Words have power. They can keep someone calm. Or they can freak someone the fuck out when they’re in a bad place. They can keep someone at a distance. Or they can bring them close. It’s why I resisted when he suggested I call him by his first name. I was keeping him at a distance. But apparently my subconscious has been telling me this whole time that I shouldn’t do that.

We read not only because we cannot know enough people, but because friendship is so vulnerable, so likely to diminish or disappear, overcome by space, time, imperfect sympathies and all the sorrows of familial and passional life.

Sometimes you're drowning yourself in your own words.

Just because of one or two or few failed relationships, people stop believing in love and some people never even care to look at love in a good way because of what others say, just because of others opinions and judgments. Some say, ‘men are dogs’ and some guys firmly believe ‘women only fall in love with rich men’. No! That’s not true! Not every guy goes after ‘sexy’ girls and not every woman goes after rich men! I want you to stop looking at the world in such a judgmental and horrible way perhaps, it’s not the right way.

Sometimes, in life, you always want to have what you can’t have. At times, you feel that relationships aren’t your top priority so you get distracted with other things. Some feel that they are too young to settle down, so they hop from person to person to person. They are the most confused souls on the earth, they are unsure about themselves.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously. ... That's why my Grandmother Clara wrote in her notebooks, in order to see things in their true dimension and to defy her own poor memory.

Art is the whisper of history, heard above the noise of time.

How quickly people changed, with their interests, their feelings. Well-made phrases replaced by well-made phrases, time is a flow of words coherent only in appearance, the one who piles up the most is the one who wins.

The tree was so old, and stood there so alone, that his childish heart had been filled with compassion; if no one else on the farm gave it a thought, he would at least do his best to, even though he suspected that his child's words and child's deeds didn't make much difference. It had stood there before he was born, and would be standing there after he was dead, but perhaps, even so, it was pleased that he stroked its bark every time he passed, and sometimes, when he was sure he wasn't observed, even pressed his cheek against it.

Time can play all sorts of tricks on you. In the blink of an eye, babies appear in carriages, coffins disappear into the ground, wars are won and lost, and children transform, like butterflies, into adults. That's what happened to me. Once upon a time, I was a boy named Hugo Cabret, and I desperately believed that a broken automaton would save my life. Now that my cocoon has fallen away and I have emerged as a magician named Professor Alcofrisbas, I can look back and see that I was right. The automaton my father discovered did save me. But now I have built a new automaton. I spent countless hours designing it. I made every gear myself, carefully cut every brass disk, and fashioned every bt of machinery with my own hands. When you wind it up, it can do something I'm sure no other automaton in the world can do. It can tel you the incredible story of Georges Melies, his wife, their goddaughter, and a beloved clock maker whose son grew up to be a magician. The complicated machinery inside my automaton can produce one-hundred and fifty-eight different pictures, and it can wrote, letter, by letter, an entire book, twenty-six thousand one hundred and fifty-nine words. These words. THE END

There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.

Words will never oxidize

Time will sweep us away, but our words will remain long after we settle into the dark.

Write as if Time will erase every word.

Words like wistfully and sublime are penned into prose and rhyme. As night gives way to dawn, life gives way to time

One touch can say more than all the world’s words, that’s true, but the touch fades with the years and then we need words again, they’re our weapons against time, death, forgetfulness, unhappiness.

You can tell me I’m dead until the words lose their meaning, but it won’t change that I’m not, and I don’t want to waste the time I have.

Life was so short, and books so countlessly many.

Who knew those detached words could conjure silent vows― flaming― fide et amor ― nothing lasts forever―