Er Inspirational Quotes

»Eines Tages«, sagte sie, »fange ich Träume ein wie Schmetterlinge.« »Und dann?«, fragte er. »Lege ich sie zwischen die Seiten dicker Bücher und presse sie zu Worten.« »Was, wenn jemand immer nur von dir träumt?« »Dann sind wir beide vielleicht schon Worte in einem Buch. Zwei Namen zwischen all den anderen.«

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

Verwechsle niemals Zufall mit Absicht“, sagte er. „Oder meine Moral mit Schwäche.

At the time, it was romance novels that reminded me. Since you’ve never read one, that probably sounds weird. But it’s all about emotion, Dan—the whole thing, the whole story, the whole point. Just book after book about people facing their issues head on, and handling it, and never, ever failing—at least, not for good. I felt like my world had already ended unhappily, but every book I read about someone who’d been through the worst and found happiness anyway seemed to say the opposite. Like my story didn’t need to be over if I didn’t want it to. Like, if I could just be strong enough to reclaim my emotions, and to work through them, maybe I’d be okay again. That’s kind of what inspired me to, er, keep going. To make good choices, even when feeling better seemed impossible.

But then I realized, they weren't calling out for their own mothers. Not those weak women, those victims. Drug addicts, shopaholics, cookie bakers. They didn't mean the women who let them down, who failed to help them into womanhood, women who let their boyfriends run a train on them. Bingers, purgers, women smiling into mirrors, women in girdles, women on barstools. Not those women with their complaints and their magazines, controlling women, women who asked, what's in in for me? Not the women watching TV while they made dinner, women who dyed their hair blond behind closed doors trying to look twenty-three. They didn't mean the mothers washing dishes wishing they'd never married, the ones in the ER, saying they fell down the stairs, not the ones in prison saying lonliness is the human condition, get used to it. The wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide-hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mothers big enough, wide enough for us to hid in, to sink down to the bottom of, mothers who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us.

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object: can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O, pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Into a thousand parts divide on man, And make imaginary puissance; Think when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

Life is a series of decisions. Whether you make the correct decisions or not doesn’t matter. The important thing is to keep going forward. Years later, when you look back, perhaps you’ll find that the incorrect decisions you made… weren’t really incorrect. Similarly, the correct decisions… might not necessarily have been correct.  Why struggle with frustration? Why proceed with confusion? In all things… resolution only comes from continuing to move forward. Following this line of reasoning, if there is no such thing as ‘incorrect,’ then how can the ‘correct’ exist? Similarly, if there is no ‘correct,’ then how can the ‘incorrect’ exist?

Der er ikke mange positioner for en kvinde, som mener noget, andet end vred strigle.

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length; These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that wheather there be shine, or gloom o'er cast, They always must be with us, or we die.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sand of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solenm main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Je moet er toch niet bij nadenken hoeveel afslagen een mens op zijn pad misloopt omdat hij eerder naar zijn twijfels luistert dan naar zijn impuls.

Du, dem ich's nicht sage, daß ich bei Nacht weinend liege, dessen Wesen mich müde macht wie eine Wiege. Du, der mir nicht sagt, wenn er wacht meinetwillen: wie, wenn wir diese Pracht ohne zu stillen in uns ertrügen? Sieh Dir die Liebenden an, wenn erst das Bekennen begann, wie bald sie lügen.

Der Mensch mag sein moko (Tätowierung) in die Erde tätowieren, aber sobald seine Wachsamkeit nachlässt, nimmt die Natur sich zurück, was er sich angeeignet hatte, um seine Eitelkeit zu befriedigen.

See It Through When you’re up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When it’s vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but you may conquer, See it through! Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim, But don’t let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the worst is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will not save you, See it through! Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you’re beset, But remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but fall still fighting; Don’t give up, whate’er you do; Eyes front, head high to the finish. See it through!

You tell me that you sometimes view the dark side of your Diana, and there no doubt you discover many Spots which I rather wish were erased, than conceal'd from you. Do not judge by this, that your opinion is an indifferent thing to me, (were it so, I should look forward with a heavey Heart,) but it is far otherways, for I had rather stand fair there, and be thought well of by Lysander than by the greater part of the World besides. I would fain hope that those faults which you discover, proceed more, from a wrong Head, than a bad Heart. E'er long May I be connected with a Friend from whose Example I may form a more faultless conduct, and whose benevolent mind will lead him to pardon, what he cannot amend.

Human Nature "One Looks Negativity to Improve Him/Her & Other Looks Their Negativity To Proof That I am A Fool

Der einzige Mensch, der sich vernünftig verhält, ist mein Schneider. Er nimmt jedes mal Maß, wenn er mich sieht, während alle anderen immer wieder die alten Maßstäbe anlegen.

Remember one thing: having no talent isn’t terrifying, what is terrifying is laziness.

Often you have to start over many times before you find the right path.

Wer nicht weiß, was die Welt ist, der weiß auch nicht, wo er lebt. Wer aber den Zweck ihres Daseins nicht kennt, der weiß weder, wer er selbst, noch was die Welt ist. Wem aber eins von diesen Stücken fehlt, der kann auch wohl seine eigene Bestimmung nicht angeben. In welchem Lichte erscheint dir nun ein Mensch, welcher um den lauten Beifall derer buhlt, die nicht wissen, wo, noch wer sie selbst sind?

Ik denk dat ieder mens twee levens leidt, een vanbinnen en een vanbuiten. Subject en object. Het leven vanbinnen is het ware, het echte. Ik denk dat de mensen mooi worden als hun binnenleven doorschijnt naar buiten, als ze niet nadenken wat voor indruk ze maken, als ze vergeten toneel te spelen. Dat denk ik. Er zijn ook mensen bij wie het precies andersom is, die alleen maar buitenkant zijn, die alleen een leeg omhulsel zijn, die voortdurend moeten weten wat voor indruk ze maken, die leven om gezien te worden. Mensen die een houding aannemen. Triest. Dat soort mensen zijn net pingpongballetjes, een harde buitenkant en leeg van binnen. Niets te vinden. Totaal oninteressant.

Jeg har aldri i mitt liv skrevet "slibrig"; men jeg kunne gi anvisning på dristigere ting i mine bøker enn hva som stod i den tyske fortelling. De er å finne f.eks. både i "Sult" og "Pan". Men når Jacob Sverdrup leser over igjen disse steder og forarges, så vil jeg også be ham lese f.eks. Ibsens "Lille Eyolf" påny. Den lille nydelige, senile råhet, champagnen som ei ble rørt, bør han virkelig nippe til. Og huske. Og bruke.

Es war ihm beim Zustandekommen dieser unerwarteten Lösung einre jener außer der Regel liegenden Gedanken zu Hilfe gekommen, von denen man nicht sowohl sagen könnte, dass sie erst dann entstehen, wenn man sie nicht mehr erwartet, als vielmehr, dass ihr überraschendes Aufleuchten an das der Geliebten erinnert, die längst schon zwischen den anderen Freundinnen da war, ehe der bestürzte Freier zu verstehen aufhört, dass er ihr andere hat gleichstellen können.

Die koloniale Theatertradition fungierte ja nicht nur als Feindbild, sie konnte andererseits auch eine Reihe von Einflüssen und Vorbildern anbieten. So war etwa die Wiederbelebung der irischen folk tradition in der Zeit der Jahrhundertwende, die sich um Autoren wie W.B.Yeats, J.M.Synge und dem Abbey Theatre vollzog, besonders in den 1950er Jahren für Künstler in der Dritten Welt, die ihrerseits im Prozess der Selbstdefinition begriffen waren, eine wichtige Quelle der Inspiration. Sowohl Wole Soyinka als auch Derek Walcott geben an, sie hätten starke Einflüsse von dieser Bewegung erhalten, speziell in der Frühphase ihrer Arbeit.

Be brave your heart, your standard high, And never dare forsake it; Your motto this, whate’er you try, “I’ll find a way, or make it.

Als er een weg is naar het Betere, vraagt dat om een onbelemmerde blik op het Ergste.

Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than who aims but at a bush.

About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.

Wozu hast du deinen Verstand? Er ist dazu da, dir unverständliche Dinge verständlich zu machen.

Vielleicht weil ich mich fürchte und er mir Mut verleiht.

The mind is not the know-er

Den som ikke kan skille seg av med sine skatter når han må, han er i lenker.

Life Rewards the DO-ers and WOW-makers!(TM)

Das rechtfertigt zwar in keinster Weise, was er getan hat, aber etwas nicht entschuldigen zu können, heißt nicht, dass man es nicht trotzdem verstehen kann.

One must appreciate the easy things as it helps to transform the dreams into reality

En enkelt gang er De sunket dybt. Lad nu fremtiden vise, hvor højt De kan nå op.

Er zijn leemtes die je moet respecteren; de vaak lange periodes waarin je het hele beeld niet ziet, de woorden niet kunt vinden en met rust gelaten moet kunnen worden.

Vores hjerne forbrænder ca. 20% af de kalorier vi indtager. Den sjoveste måde at tabe sig er at læse tankevækkende bøger. Gå på tankekur.

Solen er forlængst dukket under synsranden, fjældene er blit hvitlig grønne, de ser ut i sin fjærnhet og i sin vælde som en verden for sig selv.

be…would put you—” “Am I going to die?” Stewart asked

Es ist auch überdies jammerschade, wenn ein Mensch in Verzweiflung stirbt. Die Verzweiflung schickt uns Gott nicht, um uns zu töten, er schickt sie uns, um neues Leben in uns zu wecken.

Er is slechts één rijkdom en dat zijn de banden tussen de mensen onderling. Als we ons enkel en alleen inspannen voor materieel gewin, bouwen we onze eigen gevangenis. Dan veroordelen we onszelf tot eenzame opsluiting, met onze munten van as waarmee we niets kunnen kopen dat het waard is om voor te leven. Translation via Google translate: There is only one wealth and that are the ties between people. If we only strive for material gain, we build our own prison. Then we condemn ourselves to solitary confinement, with our coins of ash with which we can't buy anything that is worth living for.

O, het is met de verte als met de toekomst! Een wijd, schemerachtig vergezicht ligt voor ons, onze ziel en onze ogen drinken het in, en wij haken ernaar ons er helemaal aan over te geven, om in alle gelukzaligheid van één groot, heerlijk gevoel te zijn vervuld. Maar och, als we erop afvliegen, dan is alles zoals tevoren en staan wij in onze armoede, in onze beperktheid, en onze ziel dorst naar ontglipte lafenis.

jeg ville gerne være højere, så jeg kunne se dig i øjnene, jeg ville gerne expandere, så jeg kunne rumme os begge, jeg ville gerne koncentrere mig, så det hele kunne nås inden for dette øje-bliks grænser, så ingen overflødige ord skulle spilde tiden med at forbinde vore afstandes sår, jeg ville gerne koncentrere mig, så ordenes mislykkede graviditeter blev afbrudt, så nye afstande døde før fødselen, jeg ville gerne være højere, så jeg kunne se dig i øjnene, jeg ville gerne indfange dine øjnes udtryk og indtryk; men afstanden er for stor, og du ser det hele fra en anden vinkel - ser ned på mit forståelsessøgende blik.

Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked. “And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?” As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort. “Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you--” “Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground. It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

Min far fortalte meg en gang at en fri mann skal møte hver dag uten frykt. På samme måte skal han møte døden. For livstråden ble kuttet den dagen du ble født, og ingen mann og ingen kvinne får et eneste åndedrag til når tiden er ute.

Wer nie den Himmel eines fremden Erdteils gesehen hatte, der konnte doch gar nicht ahnen, wie grenzenlos das Leben war. Wer nie Menschen erlebt hatte, die nach den Sternen griffen, der konnte wohl auch nie spüren, dass er Flügel besaß.

He done his level best. Was he a mining on the flat.. He done it with a zest.. Was he a leading of the choir.. He done his level best. If he'd a reg'lar task to do, He never took no rest.. Or if 'twas off and on the same.. He done his level best. If he was preachin' on his beat, He'd tramp from east to west, And north to south ..in cold and heat.. He done his level best. He'd Yank a sinner outen (Hades), And land him with the blest; Then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again, And do his level best. He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray, And dance and drink and jest, He done his level best. Whate'er this man was sot to do He done it with a zest; No matter what his contract was, He'd do his level best...

Es geht die alte Sage, dass König Midas lange Zeit nach dem weisen Silen, dem Begleiter des Dionysus, im Walde gejagt habe, ohne ihn zu fangen. Als er ihm endlich in die Hände gefallen ist, fragt der König, was für den Menschen das Allerbeste und Allervorzüglichste sei. Starr und unbeweglich schweigt der Dämon; bis er, durch den König gezwungen, endlich unter gellem Lachen in diese Worte ausbricht: `Elendes Eintagsgeschlecht, des Zufalls Kinder und der Mühsal, was zwingst du mich dir zu sagen, was nicht zu hören für dich das Erspriesslichste ist? Das Allerbeste ist für dich gänzlich unerreichbar: nicht geboren zu sein, nicht zu sein, nichts zu sein. Das Zweitbeste aber ist für dich - bald zu sterben. According to the old story, King Midas had long hunted wise Silenus, Dionysus' companion, without catching him. When Silenus had finally fallen into his clutches, the king asked him what was the best and most desirable thing of all for mankind. The daemon stood still, stiff and motionless, until at last, forced by the king, he gave a shrill laugh and spoke these words: 'Miserable, ephemeral race, children of hazard and hardship, why do you force me to say what it would be much more fruitful for you not to hear? The best of all things is something entirely outside your grasp: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second-best thing for you — is to die soon.

Als je iets wil, en wel zo graag dat je er alles voor over hebt, maar dan ook echt alles: kan het dan eigenlijk mislukken? Was elke poging die je ondernam niet al een overwinning? Ik zal het hier halen vandaag. Ik kan niet anders. Misschien was het leven niet meer dan proberen.

Kære brødre; en ærbar mand er ikke ham, der undertrykker kvinder, en ærbar mand er ham, der opløfter kvinder og piger til deres fulde potentiale. En ærbar mand former ikke kvinder med tvang og vold, han dikterer hende ikke, han inspirerer hende med kærlighed, trofasthed og solidaritet.

Lollipops and raindrops Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies Rolling surf and raging sea Sailing ships and submarines Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty” Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances Set free my mind to wander… Imagine the ant’s marching journeys. Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings. Roam the distant depths of space. Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean. Pictures made just to enthrall Creating images from my truth Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness… Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics… Ride the edge of my seat with the hero… Weep with the heroine’s desperation. Yet… more than all these things… Give me words spun out masterfully… Terms set out in meter and rhyme… Phrases bent to rattle the soul… Prose that always miraculously inspires me! The trill runs up my spine, as I recall… A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss… Ebony eyes embracing my soul… Two souls united in beat of hearts. A butterfly flutter in my womb My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling The testament of our love given life Newly laid in my lover’s arms Luminous, sweet ebony eyes Just so much like his father’s A gaze of wonder and contentment From my babe at mother’s breast Words of the Divine set down for me Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation “My Shepherd will supply my need” These are the things that inspire me.

It's easy for the reader from his quiet vantage point high above the melee whence his eye sweeps over the whole horizon and he can see everything that is happening below--but a man down there can only see the subject nearest him. In the same way, in the world chronicle of mankind, there seem to be many centuries that could be crossed out and expunged as useless. There have been many errors committed in the world which we would not expect a child to commit today. What tortuous, blind, impassable, devious paths has mankind trodden in its search for eternal truth, while all the time, right before it, lay the straight road leading to the glittering edifice destined to be the palace of the ruler. This road is the clearest and the most beautiful of all, flooded by sunlight during the day and brightly illuminated at night, but the human throng flows past it in darkness. And how many times, even when inspired by God-given good sense, have men still managed to step back and turn away from it; succeeded again and again in losing themselves in back alleys in broad daylight; succeeded again and again in filling each others eyes with blinding smoke and trudging wearily after a mirage; again and again succeeded in coming to the very brink of the precipice, then asking each other, horrified, in which direction the road can be found. The present generation see all this clearly and is surprised at the erring and blundering of its ancestors, laughs at their folly. So it's not for nothing that mankind's chronicle is scarred out by heavenly flames, that each letter in it cries out, and that from every page a piercing finger is pointed at the present generation. But today's generation just laughs, sure of its strength and full of pride, and it starts off along a path of new errors over which its decedents in turn will pour their scorn.

Exchanging Hats Unfunny uncles who insist in trying on a lady's hat, --oh, even if the joke falls flat, we share your slight transvestite twist in spite of our embarrassment. Costume and custom are complex. The headgear of the other sex inspires us to experiment. Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach with paper plates upon your laps, keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps with exhibitionistic screech, the visors hanging o'er the ear so that the golden anchors drag, --the tides of fashion never lag. Such caps may not be worn next year. Or you who don the paper plate itself, and put some grapes upon it, or sport the Indian's feather bonnet, --perversities may aggravate the natural madness of the hatter. And if the opera hats collapse and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps, he thinks what might a miter matter? Unfunny uncle, you who wore a hat too big, or one too many, tell us, can't you, are there any stars inside your black fedora? Aunt exemplary and slim, with avernal eyes, we wonder what slow changes they see under their vast, shady, turned-down brim.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Nothing else is known of the life of this girl. Yet what does it matter? For the sublimity of life culminates in the most precious moment of inspiration. Man will make his life worth living, if he tosses a wave aloft high up into the starry sky, o'er life's dark main of worldly cares, to mirror in its crystal foam the light of the moon yet to rise. Therefore, are not those who know the last of Lorenzo those who know the whole of her life?

Orlando, who had just dipped her pen in the ink, and was about to indite some reflection upon the eternity of all things, was much annoyed to be impeded by a blot, which spread and meandered round her pen. . . . She dipped it again. The blot increased. She tried to go on with what she was saying but no words came. Next she began to decorate the blot with wings and whiskers, till it became a round-headed monster, something between a bat and a wombat. But as for writing poetry with Basket and Bartholemew in the room, it was impossible. No sooner had she said 'impossible' than, to her astonishment and alarm, the pen began to curve and caracole with the smoothest possible fluency. Her page was written in the neatest sloping Italian hand with the most insipid verses she had ever read in her life: I am myself but a vile link Amid life's weary chain, But I have spoken hallowed words, Oh, do not say in vain! . . . . . She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Once mantling o'er her cheek like that which eve Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue, Had faded into paleness, broken by Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb, but here, by an abrupt movement she spilt the ink over the page and blotted it from human sight she hoped for ever. She was all of a quiver, all of a stew. Nothing more repulsive could be imagined than to feel the ink flowing thus in cascades of involuntary inspiration.

Wat bepaalt een mens meer dan zijn omgeving? Hij ademt in het ritme van de wind, hij komt tot rust wanneer de zon ondergaat. Hier herinneren de immense bergen en de brandende zon je er voortdurend aan dat je niet meer bent dan een kiezel tussen de rotsen, een rimpeling in de oceaan, een blad in een bos, een grasspriet in het veld. Wie te veel met zichtzelf bezig is, wie denkt hij of zij meer is dan een klein onderdeeltje van de natuur, loopt al snel met zijn kop tegen de muur.

But there was one girl who had a big influence over me. Barbie. I worshipped Barbie. In fact, I would say Barbie was my twelve-inch plastic life coach. She had it all, a camper, a dune buggy, even a dream house. Part of why it was a dream house to me was that she was the only one who lived there. Her boyfriend, Ken, came to visit when she--er, I decided. She had a sports car and would bounce from job to job as she--er, I saw fit.Barbie owned zero floral baby-making dresses. I craved that indepence. And her weird-ass boobs? So what? She still reached the steering wheel of her royal blue sports car. Some people thought that the fact that her feet were fucked and she couldn't stand was a problem. But to me, it meant she was free. Free from standing at a stove, or a washing machine, or with a baby hanging off her hip. She has no hip. She has no hips. Plus, she didn't have to walk; she drove her convertible everywhere. God, I loved Barbie. She was free in every way I knew how to define freedom.

Für jeden, der einsam oder unglücklich ist oder in Sorge, ist das beste Mittel, hinauszugehen, irgendwohin, wo er allein ist, allein mit dem Himmel, mit der Natur und Gott. Dann, nur dann fühlt man, dass alles ist wie es sein soll und das Gott die Menschen in seiner einfachen, schönen Natur glücklich sehen will. Solange es so ist - und es wird wohl immer so sein-, weiß ich, dass es unter allen Umständen einen Trost gibt für jeden Kummer, und ich glaube bestimmt, dass die Natur so vieles Leid erleichtert.

Well, at least you are going to do the right thing and stand by the marriage." "Which isn't even a legal one," Richard pointed out, and then his eyes widened. "What if she is with child from last night's tumblings? Technically, the child would be illegitimate." Daniel grimaced at the thought, but tried to soothe him. "Well, one time isn't likely to bring about a child." "True,but it wasn't one time," Richard muttered. "Well even two..." Daniel began, but then noted his expression and instead asked, "Three?" Richard stared back silently. "Four?" he asked with disbelief. Richard remained silent. "Oh." Daniel sat back in his seat, somewhat impressed, but mostly envious as he imagined having Suzette five times or more, each time in different places and positions and...Giving his head a shake, he muttered, "Well, she must be very...er...inspiring. We must just hope she is not equally fertile." When Richard's shoulders slumped, he added, "Or you could marry her to ensure everything was legal." "We are already supposed to be married. How the devil do I explain the need to marry again?" Richard asked with disgust.

...en aan 'das Schöne' dat de wereld is, de wereld, de natuur en wijde schoonheid van alles, al het mooie bij elkaar. Dan denk ik niet aan al de ellende, maar aan het mooie dat nog steeds overblijft. Hierin ligt voor een groot deel het verschil tussen moeder en mij. Haar raad voor zwaarmoedigheid is: 'Denk aan al de ellende in de wereld en wees blij dat jij die niet beleeft.' Mijn raad is: 'Ga naar buiten, naar de velden, de natuur en de zon. Ga naar buiten en probeer het geluk in jezelf te hervinden; denk aan al het mooie wat er in jezelf en om je heen groeit en wees gelukkig.

Moon-Flower THE sun has burned his way across the sky, And sunk in sultry splendor; now the earth Lies spent and gray, wrapped in the grateful dusk; Stars tremble into sight, and in the west The curved moon glows faintly. ‘T is the hour! See! Flower on flower the buds unfold, until The air is filled with odors exquisite And amorous sighs, and all the verdurous gloom Is starred with silvery disks. Oh, Flower of Dreams! — Of lover’s dreams, where bliss and anguish meet; Dreams of dead joys, and joys that ne’er have been; Keenest of all, the joys that ne’er shall be! —Julia Schayer

Dit is waarschijnlijk het geheim: denken kwam er volstrekt niet aan te pas, enkel was er altijd maar en zonder aarzeling de dringende gewaarwording dat, wat ze je ook proberen wijs te maken, dingen niet noodzakelijkerwijze zijn zoals je wordt geleerd. Er is zoveel meer mogelijk. Altijd en op elk gebied. Wij moeten het daarom wel zonder na te denken doen, dat ene wat zij geen van allen in ons zien, dat ongekende. Die ene keer, die geen ruimte in ons laat voor twijfel, mag een mens niet afgaan op een afweging. Anders zouden we aan wat het meest de moeite waard is nooit beginnen, ons eigen pad bijvoorbeeld of de liefde, het loskomen, de lucht.

Sonnet XII: There is a Meetinghouse across the wold There is a Meetinghouse across the wold Near shaded churchyard where pine breezes sigh; Such sacred mem'ries gently here unfold Of rustic folk whom 'neath the yew trees lie. Engraved on stones now crum'ling in the earth, Of souls asleep for o'er a hundred years, Foretell unceasing cycles—Death and Birth That yew tree nods and weeps her unseen tears. But God shall guide us through the gloom of night Victorious over grim reaper's blade, As yet we grasp to see eternal light Amidst life's fickle joys which here do fade. Victims of Death by lusty scythe bannish'd Triumphant wake to find nightmares vanish'd! 13 February, 2013

Wie het werk maakt zonder dat hij weet of er een publiek is, wordt door het verhaal voortgejaagd. Zulke waanzin is noodzakelijk. Wie het werk maakt zonder dat hij rekening houdt met zijn publiek is onbevreesd. Hij komt zichzelf tegen en durft zichzelf te vloeren, omdat hij weet dat hij ook weer opstaat. Wie het werk maakt voor de massa is van nature angstig. Een producent van content. De massa is niet één lezer. De massa bestaat uit honderdduizend lezers. De massa is een hersenloos beest dat reageert op prikkels. De schrijver die solliciteert naar het baantje van dompteur en de aandacht van het beest weet vast te houden, voelt zich een heerser, maar vergeet dat hij er samen mee in een kooi zit.

We’ve known his family forever. He doesn’t seem to care about the scandal in ours, and he’s an excellent shot-“ “That would certainly be at the top of my list of requirements for a husband,” Minerva broke in, eyes twinkling. “’Must be able to hit a bull’s-eye at fifty paces.’” “Fifty paces? Are you mad? It would have to be a hundred at least.” Her sister burst into laughter. “Forgive me for not knowing what constitutes sufficient marksmanship for your prospective mate.” Her gaze grew calculating. “I heart that Jackson is a very good shot. Gabe said he beat everyone today, even you.” “Don’t remind me,” Celia grumbled. “Gabe also said he won a kiss from you.” “Yes, and he gave me a peck on the forehead,” Celia said, still annoyed by that. “As if I were some…some little girl.” “Perhaps he was just trying to be polite.” Celia sighed. “Probably. I didn’t kiss you “properly” today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop. “The thing is…” Celia bit her lower lip and wondered just how much she should reveal to her sister. But she had to discuss this with someone, and she knew she could trust Minerva. Her sister had never betrayed a confidence. “That wasn’t the first time Jackson kissed me. Nor the last.” Minerva nearly choked on her chocolate. “Good Lord, Celia, don’t say such things when I’m drinking something hot!” Carefully she set her cup on the bedside table. “He kissed you?” She seized Celia’s free hand. “More than once?” Celia nodded. Her sister cast her eyes heavenward. “And yet you’re debating whether to enter into a marriage of convenience with Lyons.” Then she looked alarmed. “You did want the man to kiss you, right?” “Of course I wanted-“ She caught herself. “He didn’t force me, if that’s what you’re asking. But neither has Jackson…I mean, Mr. Pinter…offered me anything important.” “He hasn’t mentioned marriage?” “No.” Concern crossed Minerva’s face. “And love? What of that?” “That neither.” She set her own cup on the table, then dragged a blanket up to her chin. “He’s just kissed me. A lot.” Minerva left the bed to pace in front of the fireplace. “With men, that’s how it starts sometimes. They desire a woman first. Love comes later.” Unless they were drumming up desire for a woman for some other reason, the way Ned had. “Sometimes all they feel for a woman is desire,” Celia pointed out. “Sometimes love never enters into it. Like Papa with his females.” “Mr. Pinter doesn’t strike me as that sort.” “Well, he didn’t strike me as having an ounce of passion until he started kissing me.” Minerva shot her a sly glance. “How is his kissing?” Heat rose in her cheeks. “It’s very…er…inspiring.” Much better than Ned’s, to be sure. “That’s rather important in a husband,” Minerva said dryly. “And what of the duke? Has he kissed you?” “Once. It was…not so inspiring.” She leaned forward. “But he’s offering marriage, and Jackson hasn’t even hinted at it.” “You shouldn’t settle for a marriage of convenience. Especially if you prefer Jackson.” I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I would think that you wouldn’t, either. Celia balled the blanket into a knot. That was easy for Jackson to say-he didn’t have a scheming grandmother breathing down his neck. For that matter, neither did Minerva.

Hymn to Mercury : Continued 71. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move 72. Within the heart of great Apollo—he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: 73. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;— And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and being—and did move Apollo to unutterable love. 74. These words were winged with his swift delight: 'You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth, 75. 'Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury! 76. 'What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow: 77. 'And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. 78. 'Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,— And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,— That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee.' 79. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:— 'Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:—for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. 80. 'The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I— A child—perceive thy might and majesty.

Summer spirit, now she closes book’s end, Days of youth spent, carefree with friends. Kari plays now to that what she does not wish, Lost summers days and angelic youth a’ missed. Seasons do change and children grow up, Passing through lives, life never stops. Endless years, bleak they the mind, Adventures of youth, throttle in time. Desires entwine, one grows old, Love loses her grasp, love slips from her hold. Bygone dreams, sleep they soundly by, Hopes for another child, not her soul-self I. Grasped for never, dreams never learn to fly (Within one’s dungeon, the darkest place to die). And Winter’s chill, lays she to rest, Dreams unobtained, fallen in the quest. Kari knew she was but a dream, solo in its flight, Ne’er taking wing again to caress innocence’s light. And to live and live as she once is and now, Stands she forever, stranded on time’s fallowed ground. The love she lost she can never now have, Graspless eternity plucked burning from her hands. Love forsaken, the summer, silent and high, Tears shed for what was once and not now, I. Dreamless hopes far long spent, Lie shallow within, deep strength relents. A hollow traverse of endless life, Lives she the knowing of eternalness light. Aye, silent dreams slip they the day’s long night, To tell of loves once beholden now lost in her sight. In love’s abandonment, Kari, spills she away, To dream upon those clouds again on some somber, summer day. Thus, before evening rusts corrode the golden days, Before innocence is raped and youth spirited away, Before night blossoms forth, and day forgets day, Summer’s love requests of us that we all do stay– To hear a tale one has long since heard before, To tell our souls twice over now and forevermore– Graves are full of those who never lived but could, Heaven and Hell are packed with those who knew they should, And eternity, relentless eternity, brims with those that would.

So Christiana went to speak to Dicky about taking us out and about, but when she found him in the office, the idiot was dead." Daniel bit his lip at her vexed tone. There was absolutely no grief in her voice at all, just irritation with the inconvenience of it all. But then George had never been one to inspire the finer feelings in those he encountered. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Did he fall and strike his head, or-" "No.He was simply sitting in his chair dead," she said with exasperation, and then added with disgust, "He was obviously a victim of his own excess. We suspected his heart gave out. Certainly the glass and decanter of whiskey next to him suggested he didn't take the best care of himself. I ask you,who drinks hard liquor first thing in the morning?" Daniel shook his head, finding it difficult to speak. She was just so annoyed as she spoke of the man's death, as if he'd deliberately done it to mess up her plans. After a moment, he asked, "Are you sure he is dead?" Suzette gave him another one of those adorable "Don't be ridiculous" looks. "Well, obviously he isn't. He is here now," she pointed out, and then shook her head and added almost under her breath, "Though I could have sworn...The man didn't even stir when he fell off the chair and slammed his head on the floor. Nor when I dropped him and his head crashed to the hardwood floor again, or when we rolled him in the carpet and dragged him upstairs, or when we dropped him in the hall and he rolled out of the carpet, or-" "Er," Daniel interrupted, and then coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, before asking, "Why exactly were you carting him about in a carpet?" "Well,don't be dense," she said with exasperation. "We couldn't let anyone know he was dead, could we?" "Couldn't you?" he asked uncertainly. Suzette clucked with irritation. "Of course not.We would have had to go into mourning then.How would I find a husband if we were forced to abstain from polite society to observe mourning?

„Verwechsle niemals Zufall mit Absicht“, sagte er. „Oder meine Moral mit Schwäche.

Voyager upon life's sea, To yourself be true, And whate'er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe . . ." Harper's Magazine - May 1854

Cross sectional view is the other part of learning the indepth details of the drawing plan. One must focus on their "CONE OF VISION" as setting eyes at proper angles is an art and you have to be an artist

Asiatisk i Vælde er Angsten. Den er modnet med umodne Aar. Og jeg føler det dagligt i Hjærtet, som om Fastlande dagligt forgaar. Men min Angst må forløses i Længsel og i Syner af Rædsel og Nød. Jeg har længtes mod Skibskatastrofer og mod Hærværk og pludselig Død. Jeg har længtes mod brændende Byer og mod Menneskeracer på Flugt, mod et Opbrud, som ramte Alverden, og et Jordskælv, som kaldtes Guds Tugt.

Ik heb mezelf gemaakt tot een verhaal, dat ik maar blijf herhalen. Ik verklaar mezelf telkens opnieuw tot kattenstront, zelfs al lang nadat anderen daarmee zijn gestopt. Ik vind mezelf waardeloos, ik vind de wereld een onveilige plek en ik word daar ook telkens in bevestigd, mede omdat ik dat vind. Ik zie wat ik wil zien. Dit verhaal ontneemt me nu vooral de mogelijkheden om het heft in eigen handen te houden, om goed voor mezelf te zorgen. Om ruimte te laten voor een ander beeld, bovendien. Het voelt alsof er mist optrekt uit mijn hoofd en tegelijkertijd word ik heel verdrietig; heb ik dit mezelf dan zo lang aangedaan? Waarom? Omdat ik geloofde dat ik dat waard was. Daarom. Als ik mezelf zo lang gevangen heb kunnen houden in mijn eigen verhaal, kan ik mezelf daar dan ook weer uit bevrijden? Mijn psychologe kijkt me aan. Ik zie aan haar blik dat ze het kwartje heeft zien vallen.

De vroeg-christelijke gemeente was ijverig in het breken van het brood en het gebed. Ik ben er diep van overtuigd, dat wij het bidden even hard nodig hebben als eten en drinken. En eten en drinken doen we zeker drie keer per dag en dan zijn er ook nog allerlei tussendoortjes. Waarom zou ons gebedsleven deze regelmaat niet hebben? We hebben het gewoon nodig. Zoals we ons lichaam verzorgen, hebben we ook de nodige zorg aan ons geestelijk leven te besteden.

Hidden symbol of your past shows your destinatioon

karma says, you will love who doesn't love you,for what you not love someone who did

Turn your happy over humble and sarrow over simple

Input of your activity, is the output of your karma

Quarrels sows not only pain and separation, but also strong love bonds and mutual understandings

Enrich your soul with Krishna consciousness and confine the heartfelt thirst

Man may never stop being inconsistent. For his desires and passions moult consistently Husbands, be aware that your wife will always be inconsistent. The woman should know that He will never cease to amaze her Hence, tie not your love to your characters. Let your souls cleave. Still he who has erred should be open to corrections for such things can also cleave a non-crossable path between them.

Hast du es schon gelesen?", fragte er. Er spielte auf das Buch an, das ich bei ihm gekauft hatte. "Ja. Es war anders als ich es in Erinnerung hatte, aber nicht schlecht." Das Buch war ein Kalssiker und ich hatte es als Kind mehrfach verschlungen. "So ist das mit verlorenen Dingen", meinte Jacob und bot mir ein Glas grünen Tee an.

Verliefdheid rust op het roekeloze besluit verliefd te worden. Met zijn besluit had Simon de kwelling over zichzelf afgeroepen. De welling was masochistisch en theatraal. Het was gezocht ongeluk, zelfgeschapen wanhoop, ijdele parodie. Allemaal waar. Maar wat het ook mocht zijn, de kwelling werd er niet minder op.

Verliefdheid rust op het roekeloze besluit om verliefd te worden. Met zijn besluit had Simon de kwelling over zichzelf afgeroepen. De kwelling was masochistisch en theatraal. Het was gezocht ongeluk, zelfgeschapen wanhoop, ijdele parodie. Allemaal waar. Maar wat het ook mocht zijn, de kwelling werd er niet minder om.

Op haar wangen zaten weer van die zwarte, natte strepen. Zo had er hij er ook wel eens uitgezien in de tijd dat hij in Alkmaar kranten had rondgebracht en met donkergrijs geworden vingertoppen in zijn ogen had gewreven. Het was een voorrecht om op haar te lijken.

Arimas stemme var dyb og syngende. ”Har I aldrig tænkt på, hvordan alle sagn og gamle historier handler om lyset mod mørket, om det gode mod det onde? Dualiteten er ikke sand, men den er nemmere at forklare. Karawianerne er mørket, men de er også lys. De kæmper mod os, fordi de lever mørket. Selv de mennesker eller andre væsener, der kaldes onde, er af lyset. Alt er lyset, men nogle glemmer det mere end andre. De tog mørket som herre, og det giver dem et formål med livet. Før mørket opstod, var de bare mennesker.” Mayin nikkede på den anden side af bålet, og Soral kiggede hen på hende. ”Der er ikke noget, der af natur er ondt, Mayin,” sagde han. ”Der er ikke noget, der fuldt ud er det modsatte af lys. Som sådan kan man sige, at alt er lys, bare i forskellige nuancer.” Enilia sendte et skævt smil over bålet til Soral. Det var en god måde at sige det på.

De forstår det bare ikke,” fortsatte Elior. ”Og jeg tror ikke, det er noget, der ændrer sig. Men du forstår det. Du ved godt hvorfor, og derfor må du lære at lade være med at tage dig af, hvad de siger.” ”Det er ikke bare det,” snøftede hun. ”Det er ikke som sådan ordene. Det er deres blikke. Deres ansigter på afstand.” Hun kunne mærke, at Elior nikkede. Hans hage stødte let mod toppen af hendes hoved, og hun trak sig lidt væk og kiggede op på ham. ”De hader mig virkelig.” Så rystede han på hovedet. ”Det er ikke had.” ”Jo, det er. Jeg kan se det.” Han rystede igen på hovedet, slap hende og satte sig tilbage mod husmuren. Hun rykkede lidt væk, så hun kunne se hans ansigt igen. ”Jeg kan se det,” gentog hun. ”Det er altid det samme. Jeg kom gående derhen, og de stod der uden for købmanden, og så kiggede de på mig. Og det var had.” ”Det er ikke had dybest set,” sagde Elior stille og strøg en tot hår om bag øret. ”De er bange.” Hun kom næsten til at le. ”De er overhovedet ikke bange for mig!” ”Ikke bange på den måde,” sagde han og bed i sin underlæbe. ”De er ikke bange for dig, de er bange for det, du er. De er bange for os. For ainatunari. De er bange, fordi de ikke forstår, hvad vi er.

Jeg mener, at der er lys på den anden side af mørket,” sagde han. ”Jeg mener, at hvad der end sker, så træder vi igen ud i lyset på den anden side. Vores historie ender ikke her.” Hun trak forsigtigt sin hånd til sig og krydsede armene foran maven. Mevarn trak sine knæ op mod brystet og støttede sine arme mod dem. Foran dem var bålet brændt ned til gløder, og ovenover tittede alle efterårets stjerner frem på den sorte himmel. ”Jeg er ikke så god til det,” sagde hun. ”Det der med tillid til lyset. Jeg vil bare gerne have, at det hele går væk og lader mig være i fred.” Mevarn smilede skævt. ”Sådan tror jeg, vi alle har det. Tillid eller ej.” ”Han har levet i mørket i århundreder,” sagde hun undrende. ”Hvordan kunne han holde det ud?” ”Nogle gange kan man udholde utrolige ting for dem, man elsker.” Hun så fra gløderne over på hans mørkeblå øjne og nikkede. Han smilede, og hun mærkede det efterhånden velkendte sug i maven. Et ganske kort øjeblik lænede hun sig over og holdt sin pande ind mod hans, så deres ansigter var helt tætte på hinanden. Hun mærkede hans ånde på sine læber. Så trak hun sig væk, rejste sig og sagde godnat.

The first known published text of the classic fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast" was written by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve in 1740 and collected in her compilation La Jeune Américaine et les contes marins. To say that the story met with favor is an understatement. By 1756, "Beauty and the Beast" was so well known that Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont wrote an abridged edition of it that would become the popular version included in collections of fairy tales throughout the nineteenth century (although Andrew Lang went back to de Villeneuve's original for his groundbreaking anthology The Blue Fairy Book, first published in 1891 as the beginning of a twelve-book series that would revolutionize the anthologizing of fairy tales for young read ers). Fifteen years later. Jean-François Marmontel and André Ernest Modeste Grétry adapted de Villeneuve's story as the book for the opera Zémire et Azor. the start of more than two centuries of extraliterary treatments that now include Jean Cocteau's famous 1946 film La Belle et la Bête, Walt Disney's 1991 animated feature Beauty and the Beast, and countless other cinematic, televi sion, stage, and musical variations on the story's theme. More than 4,000 years after it became part of the oral storytelling tradi tion, it is easy to understand why "Beauty and the Beast" continues to be one of the most popular fairy tales of all time, and a seemingly inexhaustible source of inspiration for artists working in all mediums. Its theme of the power of unconditional love is one that never grows old.

Het enige lot dat er is, is het lot dat je zelf creëert.’ - Ariel Dawn -

Het enige lot dat er is, is het lot dat je zelf creëert.

Zoals Victor Hugo zei Kent elk dorp een docent Die de boel verlicht En een paus Die dat licht weer dooft Maar wat als er meer docenten waren dan pausen?

Making the wrong friends is like picking a bouquet of weeds—looks promising at first, but soon you’re sneezing and regretting every choice. These are the pals who convince you that midnight adventures are a great idea until you're explaining to a judge why a shopping cart was found in your backyard. They’re the folks who turn your life into a sitcom where you're the punchline. Remember, choosing friends is like picking a fruit—go for the ones that add sweetness, not a trip to the ER!

Wir Wanderer im Nebelmeer, fühlen diesen Nebel schwer, mittendrin ein Andrer steht, ich frage mich, wohin er geht. Durch Schleier grau und dichten Dunst, suchen wir nach Weg und Kunst, im Zwielicht zwischen Sein und Schein, sind wir verloren, doch nicht allein.

The

Nicht die Wahrheit, in der irgendein Mensch ist oder zu sein vermeint, sondern die aufrichtige Mühe, die er angewandt hat, hinter die Wahrheit zu kommen, macht den Wert des Menschen. Denn nicht durch den Besitz, sondern durch die Nachforschung der Wahrheit erweitern sich seine Kräfte, worin allein seine immer wachsende Vollkommenheit besteht. Der Besitz macht ruhig, träge, stolz. Wenn Gott in seiner Rechten alle Wahrheit und in seiner Linken den einzigen immer regen Trieb nach Wahrheit, obschon mit dem Zusatze, mich immer und ewig zu irren, verschlossen hielte, und spräche zu mir: Wähle!, ich fiele ihm mit Demut in seine Linke und sagte: Vater, gib! Die reine Wahrheit ist ja doch nur für dich allein!

the Christian doctrine of prayer is that it is the believer's privilege to be taught by the Spirit of God Himself to know what the will of God is and not to ask for the things that our foolishness would prompt us to ask for but to ask for things that the never-erring Spirit of God prompts us to ask for. True prayer is prayer “in the Spirit,” that is, the prayer which the Spirit inspires and directs.