Quoteth

I love those who yearn for the impossible.

You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone, only you’re not. See, in all our searching, the only thing we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable, is each other.

I’d hate to die twice. It is so boring.

It is not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled. Or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena. Whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood. Who strives valiantly. Who errs and comes short again and again. Who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause. Who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement. And who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.

For a second, I felt a bottomless sadness. So completely alone. Like one of my stuffed animals at home that I was too old for now, that sat on the shelf in my closet, mashed against the back wall.

Sometimes I find myself sitting in one spot for hours, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing, and, most disturbingly, caring about nothing.

Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick.

He had the feeling, once again, that he’d missed out on something somewhere. He’d never really realized it until the last couple of days. He didn’t know what it was. He just wanted to do things. He didn’t know what they were. But he knew he wanted to do them soon.

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

My reflection causes old, unchanged feelings to pile up inside my heart, like this snow falling to the ground.

We gain strength and courage and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face…we must do what we think we cannot.

I don’t feel like I can change the world. I don’t even try. I only want to change this small life that I see standing in front of me, which is suffering. I want to change this small real thing that is the destiny of one little girl. and then another, and another, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself or sleep at night.

It is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.

Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.