Decorate Your Soul Quotes

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So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
Jorge Luis Borges
Explore me,' you said and I collected my ropes, flasks and maps, expecting to be back home soon. I dropped into the mass of you and I cannot find the way out. Sometimes I think I’m free, coughed up like Jonah from the whale, but then I turn a corner and recognise myself again. Myself in your skin, myself lodged in your bones, myself floating in the cavities that decorate every surgeon’s wall. That is how I know you. You are what I know.
Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body)
Your friends are all the dullest dogs I know. They are not beautiful: they are only decorated. They are not clean: they are only shaved and starched. They are not dignified: they are only fashionably dressed. They are not educated: they are only college passmen. They are not religious: they are only pewrenters. They are not moral: they are only conventional. They are not virtuous: they are only cowardly. They are not even vicious: they are only “frail.” They are not artistic: they are only lascivious. They are not prosperous: they are only rich. They are not loyal, they are only servile; not dutiful, only sheepish; not public spirited, only patriotic; not courageous, only quarrelsome; not determined, only obstinate; not masterful, only domineering; not self-controlled, only obtuse; not self-respecting, only vain; not kind, only sentimental; not social, only gregarious; not considerate, only polite; not intelligent, only opinionated; not progressive, only factious; not imaginative, only superstitious; not just, only vindictive; not generous, only propitiatory; not disciplined, only cowed; and not truthful at all: liars every one of them, to the very backbone of their souls.
George Bernard Shaw (Man and Superman)
Culture is not something you put on like a ready-made suit of clothes, but a nourishment you absorb to build up your personality, just as food builds up the body of a growing boy; it is not an ornament to decorate a phrase, still less to show off your knowledge, but a means, painfully acquired, to enrich the soul.
W. Somerset Maugham (Ten Novels and Their Authors)
The biggest mistake we make is that we build our homes in other people. We build those homes and we decorate them with the love and care and respect that makes us feel safe at the end of the day. We invest in other people, and we evaluate our self-worth based on how much those homes welcome us. But what many don’t realize is that when you build your home in other people, you give them the power to make you homeless. When those people walk away, those homes walk away with them, and all of a sudden, we feel empty because everything that we had within us, we put into them. We trusted someone else with pieces of us. The emptiness we feel doesn’t mean we have nothing to give, or that we have nothing within us. It’s just that we built our home in the wrong place.
Najwa Zebian (Welcome Home: A Guide to Building a Home for Your Soul)
Aside from the, let's say, elegant decor and ambience you've created in that monstrosity you call a gathering place inside, you and your men haven't been much more impressive to me than fucking Corny. I thought combining forces with some likeminded souls would be an enterprising partnership, but ultimately I'm feeling a bit disappointed.
Jim Goforth (Plebs)
Love wasn’t a great, burning brushfire that swept across your soul and charred you beyond recognition. It was being there, simply that. It was a few people, standing together in a living room, trimming a Christmas tree with the decorations that represented the sum total of who they were, where they’d been, what they believed in. It was simple, everyday moments that laid like bricks, one atop another, until they formed a foundation so solid that nothing could make them fall. Not wind, not rain … not even the faded, watercolor memories of a once-brushfire passion. Nothing.
Kristin Hannah (Angel Falls)
How was it that the profound simplicity of those words had the power to rock her world? Never again would she lose sight of what mattered, not for a day or an hour or even a minute. She would treasure every instant of her life from now on, for she knew something now, a deep truth that had eluded her all of her life. Love wasn’t a great, burning brushfire that swept across your soul and charred you beyond recognition. It was being there, simply that. It was a few people, standing together in a living room, trimming a Christmas tree with the decorations that represented the sum total of who they were, where they’d been, what they believed in. It was simple, everyday moments that laid like bricks, one atop another, until they formed a foundation so solid that nothing could make them fall. Not wind, not rain … not even the faded, watercolor memories of a once-brushfire passion.
Kristin Hannah (Angel Falls)
Milwaukee, Rebecca. Order and sobriety and a devotion to cleanliness that scours out the soul. Decent people doing their best to live decent lives, three's nothing really to hate them for, they do their jobs and maintain their property and love their children (most of the time); they take family vacations and visit relatives and decorate their houses for the holidays, collect some things and save up for other things; they're good people (most of them, most of the time), but if you were me, if you were young Pete Harris, you felt the modesty of it eroding you, depopulating you, all those little satisfactions and no big, dangerous ones; no heroism, no genius, no terrible yearning for anything you can't at least in theory actually have. If you were young lank-haired, pustule-plagued Pete Harris you felt like you were always about to expire from the safety of your life, its obdurate sensibleness, that Protestant love of the unexceptional; the eternal certainty of the faithful that flamboyance and the macabre are not just threatening but - worse - uninteresting.
Michael Cunningham (By Nightfall)
After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand And chaining a soul. And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning And company doesn’t mean security. And you begin to learn That kisses aren’t compromises And presents aren’t promises. And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes ahead With the grace of a woman or a man Not the grief of a child. And you learn to build all your loads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in midnight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you ask too much. So you plant your own garden And decorate your own soul Instead of waiting for someone to buy you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure That you really are strong. And you really do have worth. And you learn. And you learn. With every failure you learn.   —Anonymous
Maggie Oman Shannon (Prayers for Healing: 365 Blessings, Poems, & Meditations from Around the World)
You Learn (by Jorge Luis Borges) The poverty of yesterday was less squalid than the poverty we purchase with our industry today. Fortunes were smaller then as well. (The Elderly Lady) After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul, And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning And company doesn’t mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts And presents aren’t promises, And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child, And you learn to build all your roads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn… That even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure… That you really are strong And you really do have worth… And you learn and learn… With every good-bye you learn. {…}
Jorge Luis Borges
I . . . hurried to the city library to find out the true age of Chicago. City library! After all, it cannot be anything but Chicagoesque. His is the richest library, no doubt, as everything in Chicago is great in size and wealth. Its million books are filling all the shelves, as the dry goods fill the big stores. Oh, librarian, you furnished me a very good dinner, even ice cream, but—where is the table? The Chicago city library has no solemnly quiet, softly peaceful reading-room; you are like a god who made a perfect man and forgot to put in the soul; the books are worth nothing without having a sweet corner and plenty of time, as the man is nothing without soul. Throw those books away, if you don't have a perfect reading-room! Dinner is useless without a table. I want to read a book as a scholar, as I want to eat dinner as a gentleman. What difference is there, my dearest Chicago, between your honourable library and the great department store, an emporium where people buy things without a moment of selection, like a busy honey bee? The library is situated in the most annoyingly noisy business quarter, under the overhanging smoke, in the nearest reach of the engine bells of the lakeside. One can hardly spend an hour in it if he be not a Chicagoan who was born without taste of the fresh air and blue sky. The heavy, oppressive, ill-smelling air of Chicago almost kills me sometimes. What a foolishness and absurdity of the city administrators to build the office of learning in such place of restaurants and barber shops! Look at that edifice of the city library! Look at that white marble! That's great, admirable; that means tremendous power of money. But what a vulgarity, stupid taste, outward display, what an entire lacking of fine sentiment and artistic love! Ah, those decorations with gold and green on the marble stone spoil the beauty! What a shame! That is exactly Chicagoesque. O Chicago, you have fine taste, haven't you?
Yoné Noguchi (The Story Of Yone Noguchi: Told By Himself)
Look—here’s a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8. Do we see the same thing? We’d have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary variations, of course: some receivers will see a cloth which is turkey red, some will see one that’s scarlet, while others may see still other shades. (To color-blind receivers, the red tablecloth is the dark gray of cigar ashes.) Some may see scalloped edges, some may see straight ones. Decorative souls may add a little lace, and welcome—my tablecloth is your tablecloth, knock yourself out.
Stephen King (On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft)
I left Brookstone and went to the Pottery Barn. When I was a kid and everything inside our house was familiar, cheap, and ruined, walking into the Pottery Barn was like entering heaven. If they really wanted people to enjoy church, I thought back then, they should make everything in church look and smell like the Pottery Barn. My dream was to surround myself one day with everything in the store, with the wicker baskets and scented candles, the brushed-silver picture frames. But that was a long time ago. I had already gone through a period of buying everything there was to buy at the Pottery Barn and decorating my apartment like a Pottery Barn outlet, and then getting rid of it all during a massive upgrade. Now everything at the Pottery Barn looked ersatz and mass-produced. To buy any of it now would be to regress in aspiration and selfhood. I didn’t want to buy anything at the Pottery Barn so much as I wanted to recapture the feeling of wanting to buy everything from the Pottery Barn. Something similar happened at the music store. I should try to find some new music, I thought, because there was a time when new music could lift me out of a funk like nothing else. But I wasn’t past the Bs when I saw the only thing I really cared to buy. It was the Beatles’ Rubber Soul, which had been released in 1965. I already owned Rubber Soul. I had owned Rubber Soul on vinyl, then on cassette, and now on CD, and of course on my iPod, iPod mini, and iPhone. If I wanted to, I could have pulled out my iPhone and played Rubber Soul from start to finish right there, on speaker, for the sake of the whole store. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to buy Rubber Soul for the first time all over again. I wanted to return the needle from the run-out groove to the opening chords of “Drive My Car” and make everything new again. That wasn’t going to happen. But, I thought, I could buy it for somebody else. I could buy somebody else the new experience of listening to Rubber Soul for the first time. So I took the CD up to the register and paid for it and, walking out, felt renewed and excited. But the first kid I offered it to, a rotund teenager in a wheelchair looking longingly into a GameStop window, declined on the principle that he would rather have cash. A couple of other kids didn’t have CD players. I ended up leaving Rubber Soul on a bench beside a decommissioned ashtray where someone had discarded an unhealthy gob of human hair. I wandered, as everyone in the mall sooner or later does, into the Best Friends Pet Store. Many best friends—impossibly small beagles and corgis and German shepherds—were locked away for display in white cages where they spent their days dozing with depression, stirring only long enough to ponder the psychic hurdles of licking their paws. Could there be anything better to lift your spirits than a new puppy?
Joshua Ferris (To Rise Again at a Decent Hour)
1. Eternal insomnia for days on end, the brain does not rest at all. You never sleep, because you are at work all day and then you dream that you are at work, wake up in the morning, go to work. Or do you dream that you wander somewhere, in nature, in the city, run away or fight with someone, and in the morning you complain that you are not getting enough sleep. 2. All memory in the cartridge. Life as a compact cassette, the contents of the reality of the subconscious - this is the content of the same cassette tape, all the memory deja vu on the reels of the cassette representing the past and future. 3. Artifacts of experience in the memory of past lives, live with us forever in the abyss of oblivion, and some like buoys emerge and warn of the depth of unconsciousness. 4. The chain of optimism is the weak link of naivety in human evolution. Optimism from a smile for a stranglehold of reality leading to the comic surrealism of the dreaming paradoxes of the human world. 5. Love is a night lamp from gloomy thoughts of the past. 6. Genius is telepathy with eternity. 7. Expressive horror, clownish smile of shock of truth, there are so many horrors and mental sufferings in it. An evil laugh of inevitability sounds. You are in the hands of a butcher of reality. All people from different dimensions of illusions do not hide from the truth, go play. 8. You hear the shocking laugh of brutal awareness. You are in the clown horror, the smile of the reality in the form of a clown becomes gigantic and it eats you moving to the zone of eternal laughter of indifference, where you are among faceless people in chains, on them plastic masks on the floor of the face with terrible smiles of disappointment a mask of nervous laughter emanates from them souls are cremated by despair; they don’t respond to you because they are undead unscrupulous. 9. Will turns life into a lucid dream. 10. Life is a two-room apartment, where one room is a city, the other is a dream. 11. The main thing in this world is family and awareness, the rest is decor. 12. Materialism is a cell of the mind that suppresses the will of the mind. 13. Enlarged or altered parts of the body are prostheses of pride, a disabled ego, you can see how the brain looks, but not the soul, a mutated mind exhausted by knowledge. 14. For a single person, the heart will become a friend, the body will be the soul, and the mind will become a horse. 15. Pride will take away the truth from the world without which there will be no future only spiritual poverty. 16. A frightening schizoid, bloody smile of rage burns with fire several hundred meters. Tearing the face and psyche and the skull itself, a delightful light smile of insensibility. 17. Time will show a complete psychological portrait of mankind to light and darkness. 18. Faith is stronger than all torture; there is nothing more powerful in the whole universe than faith that feeds will. 19. Truth - these are very strongly tightened strings, you need to play them very carefully and then you will hear an unforgettable melody of truth that may turn out to be the last in your life. 20. Reality is decomposing and all the ridiculous horrors of reality are visible, since you are in the lush chronosphere, where the quantum genetic transformations of the instincts of despair are in, in the projection of an alternative reality of the ego of power in which everything is programmed for decomposition. 21. An alternative is all that you have left. 22. Around you are bodypainting instincts of despair, a reflection of naked and at the same time false inner sensations and complexes. 23. Laughter and a frozen smile with tears is a state of doom that says that there is no more hope. Such laughter is heard in society, it is increasingly painful to look at the schizoid smiles of selfishness, under large bandanas in the form of eerie toothy smiles. You laugh until your heart stops. Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Musin Almat Zhumabekovich.
Plant your garden and decorate your own 
soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers
Jorge Luis Borges
Sweet candy You are my life meaning, only you are forever beautiful in my eyes, you are like the utopian harmony of the universe, being your husband is like going to heaven. When nature created you, she was idealized, poetic, exaggeratedly embellished even the smallest details of your beautiful body. Your skin is a masterpiece of painting, the voice is a masterpiece of music, the shape of a body is a masterpiece of sculpture, the eyes and character are the masterpiece of a romantic movie. Oh baby, you're just a piquant sweetheart, you too much juicy and hot, savory relish, aesthetic nude, nu erotica, pin up, you have the perfect body, brought to absolute perfection. You are my powerful pull, the limit of my dreams, my most sexy, desirable dream. I would insatiably lick, kiss and caress like ice cream all day long, my skin glows like a juicy cream, give a body massage with my kisses and thank fate for every second I spent with you. I feel for you a powerful attraction and attraction for 1000% of you I can think and dream day and night to fly. When I see you nothing but true love I do not feel, you can look at you forever, you are my heaven on earth, my whole mind is focused only on you. Your sweet body shapes, powerful lures, my sweet sweetie. Each microparticle, atom, molecule of your body, a brilliant masterpiece of the universe, time, nature, is brilliantly beautiful, as detailed as possible, everything decorates you literally everything. The highest form of beauty in its true form. A majestic ideal, a completed masterpiece. You have a special energy of charisma and charm. The skin is like thousands of rose petals, kisses burn the soul with the heat of lust, you are the warm light of tenderness illuminating my soul, so the rich shades of your juicy skin shimmer so picturesquely.
Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Decorate your life and home to represent the vivid hues of your radiant soul. Share your brilliance.
Amy Leigh Mercree (Joyful Living: 101 Ways to Transform Your Spirit and Revitalize Your Life)
Heartened up by this story, I began to draw upon his more comprehensive knowledge as to the ages of the pictures and as to certain of the stories connected with them, upon which I was not clear; and I likewise inquired into the causes of the decadence of the present age, in which the most refined arts had perished, and among them painting, which had not left even the faintest trace of itself behind. "Greed of money," he replied, "has brought about these unaccountable changes. In the good old times, when virtue was her own reward, the fine arts flourished, and there was the keenest rivalry among men for fear that anything which could be of benefit to future generations should remain long undiscovered. Then it was that Democritus expressed the juices of all plants and spent his whole life in experiments, in order that no curative property should lurk unknown in stone or shrub. That he might understand the movements of heaven and the stars, Eudoxus grew old upon the summit of a lofty mountain: three times did Chrysippus purge his brain with hellebore, that his faculties might be equal to invention. Turn to the sculptors if you will; Lysippus perished from hunger while in profound meditation upon the lines of a single statue, and Myron, who almost embodied the souls of men and beasts in bronze, could not find an heir. And we, sodden with wine and women, cannot even appreciate the arts already practiced, we only criticise the past! We learn only vice, and teach it, too. What has become of logic? of astronomy? Where is the exquisite road to wisdom? Who even goes into a temple to make a vow, that he may achieve eloquence or bathe in the fountain of wisdom? And they do not pray for good health and a sound mind; before they even set foot upon the threshold of the temple, one promises a gift if only he may bury a rich relative; another, if he can but dig up a treasure, and still another, if he is permitted to amass thirty millions of sesterces in safety! The Senate itself, the exponent of all that should be right and just, is in the habit of promising a thousand pounds of gold to the capitol, and that no one may question the propriety of praying for money, it even decorates Jupiter himself with spoils'. Do not hesitate, therefore, at expressing your surprise at the deterioration of painting, since, by all the gods and men alike, a lump of gold is held to be more beautiful than anything ever created by those crazy little Greek fellows, Apelles and Phydias!
Petronius (The Satyricon)
Planning a Marriage? Don’t forget to Book a Banquet Hall for the Best Service Marriage can be defined as a holy procession where two souls unite, take an oath to care for each, and promise to stay together. People have defined marriages in thousands of ways which we can interpret in various contexts. Well, in India, a marriage is not limited to just two people forming a bond. It is much more than that. It is celebrated as a grand occasion which reunites the whole family and creates fond memories which we remember for a lifetime. Marriage these days embarks upon the social prestige and dignity of a family. Then comes one of the most important parts of holding a marriage- serving the guests! No matter how much effort you put up into the procession, there would be certain relatives who would criticize some aspect or the other. There are a lot of issues which you need to look after. In these cases, the best way to manage all the guests at once effectively is to book a wedding banquet where experts will be available to take care of your requirements. Wedding halls in Gurgaon are one of the best places to hold a marriage or any such kind of event. They provide you with a plethora of facilities which would make you feel proud as a host. Let’s have a look at the reasons why you should book the Best Wedding Banquet in Gurgaon: Prefer Quality Booking a good banquet hall means ensuring quality service for your guests. Banquet halls provide you with the requirements that you need for an event to carry out successfully so that there are no quality issues. This is what you expect from a place where you are going to arrange for a wedding. Proper Management While conducting a marriage function, you already have to deal with so many responsibilities that you can’t have complete focus on the management of the ceremony. Booking a banquet hall frees you of the extra responsibility of managing various other things in the event. Be it the guest management, food and lodging, or other such responsibilities, the managerial part of the event is well off with Wedding halls in Gurgaon. Catering Catering comes as one of the biggest hassles in managing an event. With good catering services, you don’t have to get into the business of catering as the people from the banquet would already be there to help you out in that aspect of the matter. With good food and great service, guests would certainly be happy with your hospitality. Choose wisely! Budget Friendly Rather than dealing with different service vendors at once, you only need to deal with the banquet authorities or planners, which saves a lot on your costing of the events, as it includes all the expenses that you spend under the purview of event management. From lighting to decoration, food to guest accommodation, and almost every aspect of event management. Thus, if you choose the Best Wedding hall in Gurgaon, you are well off with your event underway!
resort country club
And then there’s Stella. Stella is an interior decorator who’s been in the business for more than a decade. She had a thriving design firm and accolades out the wazoo. And yet, she still felt a niggling need to go to school to get certified. “Why would you want to waste your time doing that?” I asked. “You have a waiting list for your clients.” “Well, I’d feel more legit,” she said. FOR BUSINESS For the love of God and the information highway, please write your bio in first person—we all know you wrote it anyway. One of the most highly trafficked pages on small business websites is the “About” page. People are hiring you, paying attention to you, coming to see you. So they want to hear from… you. “You made more than a hundred grand last year and your clients refer you all the time. Isn’t that legit?” I asked. She was resisting, so I ramped up my persisting. “You know what you should say in your bio?” I said to her. “Say that you’re self-taught, in eighteen-point bold type. Let people know that you never set foot in a design college because you were too busy sewing your own drapes, shopping for textiles with your grandma, and learning how to build cabinets after school with your dad. It’s in your blood. Self-taught says ‘extra amazing.’ Self-taught says ‘natural talent.’ Just come out with it.” She skipped school.
Danielle LaPorte (The Fire Starter Sessions: A Soulful + Practical Guide to Creating Success on Your Own Terms)
It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?” She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest. “You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.” I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.” “I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself. “What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask. “What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me. “Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.” Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear. “If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way. “Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact. I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes. “Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.” Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed. Friday,
Tammy Falkner (Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy (The Reed Brothers, #3.4))
Art and Soil offers a thoughtful and detail-oriented collection of indoor and outdoor plants, living art pieces and decor items to delight your soul.
I want to decorate the castle with shells and seaweed,” Seraphina said. “You’ll make it look like a girl’s castle,” Justin protested. “Your hermit crab might be a girl,” Seraphina pointed out. Justin was clearly appalled by the suggestion. “He’s not! He’s not a girl!” Seeing his little cousin’s gathering outrage, Ivo intervened quickly. “That crab is definitely male, sis.” “How do you know?” Seraphina asked. “Because . . . well, he . . .” Ivo paused, fumbling for an explanation. “Because,” Pandora intervened, lowering her voice confidentially, “as we were planning the layout of the castle, the hermit crab discreetly asked me if we would include a smoking room. I was a bit shocked, as I thought he was rather young for such a vice, but it certainly leaves no doubt as to his masculinity.” Justin stared at her raptly. “What else did he say?” he demanded. “What is his name? Does he like his castle? And the moat?” Pandora launched into a detailed account of her conversation with the hermit crab, reporting that his name was Shelley, after the poet, whose works he admired. He was a well-traveled crustacean, having flown to distant lands while clinging to the pink leg of a herring gull who had no taste for shellfish, preferring hazelnuts and bread crumbs. One day, the herring gull, who possessed the transmigrated soul of an Elizabethan stage actor, had taken Shelley to see Hamlet at the Drury Lane theater. During the performance, they had alighted on the scenery and played the part of a castle gargoyle for the entire second act. Shelley had enjoyed the experience but had no wish to pursue a theatrical career, as the hot stage lights had nearly fricasseed him.
Lisa Kleypas (Devil in Spring (The Ravenels, #3))
After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t always mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child and you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth. and you learn and you learn with every good-bye you learn.
Gene Wilder (Kiss Me Like a Stranger: My Search for Love and Art)