“He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.”

― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

topic:words music language

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“Without memories, without hope, they lived for the moment only.”

― Albert Camus, The Plague

“Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love wearied her more than great debauchery.”

― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

“Looking back I see that I was always afraid of something: of the dark, of displeasing people, of failure. Anything I accomplished had to be done across a barrier of fear.”

― Eleanor Roosevelt, The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are...”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night

“So do flux and reflux—the rhythm of change—alternate and persist in everything under the sky.”

― Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles

“The Lord, in the culmination of the mystery of the Incarnation, chose to reach our intimate depths through a fragment of matter. He comes not from above, but from within, he comes that we might find him in this world of ours.”

― Pope Francis, Laudato si'

“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

“Every one has his superstitions. One of mine is that in positions of great responsibility every one should do his duty to the best of his ability where assigned by competent authority, without application or the use of influence to change his...”

― Ulysses S. Grant, Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant

“We men of study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be straitly looked after! We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep.”

― Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

“No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.”

― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

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