Gut Wrenching Book Quotes

Can you identify the source preventing you from feeling good every single day, from loving yourself unconditionally and making your dreams come true? Is it a voice in your head or a gut wrenching ache that compromises your inner peace and doesn’t allow you to accept the love around you? Is there one thing, or maybe many things, keeping you from forgiving your past and moving forward, tormenting you with lies like “You don’t deserve real love so just settle for whatever you can get,” “You’re not smart enough to achieve your dream so don’t even try,” or “Look at your past… you should hate yourself way more than you actually do!”? Welcome to your Little Monster.

But in the end you are not a god. You're only a child, and all you can do is watch.

Guts,” never much of a word outside the hunting season, was a favorite noun in literary prose. People were said to have or to lack them, to perceive beauty and make moral distinctions in no other place. “Gut-busting” and “gut-wrenching” were accolades. “Nerve-shattering,” “eye-popping,” “bone-crunching”—the responsive critic was a crushed, impaled, electrocuted man. “Searing” was lukewarm. Anything merely spraining or tooth-extracting would have been only a minor masterpiece. “Literally,” in every single case, meant figuratively; that is, not literally. This film will literally grab you by the throat. This book will literally knock you out of your chair… Sometimes the assault mode took the form of peremptory orders. See it. Read it. Go at once…Many sentences carried with them their own congratulations, Suffice it to say…or, The only word for it is…Whether it really sufficed to say, or whether there was, in fact, another word, the sentence, bowing and applauding to itself, ignored…There existed also an economical device, the inverted-comma sneer—the “plot,” or his “work,” or even “brave.” A word in quotation marks carried a somehow unarguable derision, like “so-called” or “alleged…” “He has suffered enough” meant if we investigate this matter any further, it will turn out our friends are in it, too… Murders, generally, were called brutal and senseless slayings, to distinguish them from all other murders; nouns thus became glued to adjectives, in series, which gave an appearance of shoring them up… Intelligent people, caught at anything, denied it. Faced with evidence of having denied it falsely, people said they had not done it and had not lied about it, and didn’t remember it, but if they had done it or lied about it, they would have done it and misspoken themselves about it in an interest so much higher as to alter the nature of doing and lying altogether. It was in the interest of absolutely nobody to get to the bottom of anything whatever. People were no longer “caught” in the old sense on which most people could agree. Induction, detection, the very thrillers everyone was reading were obsolete. The jig was never up. In every city, at the same time, therapists earned their living by saying, “You’re being too hard on yourself.

As the previous parts of this book have shown, the engines of posttraumatic reactions are located in the emotional brain. In contrast with the rational brain, which expresses itself in thoughts, the emotional brain manifests itself in physical reactions: gut-wrenching sensations, heart pounding, breathing becoming fast and shallow, feelings of heartbreak, speaking with an uptight and reedy voice, and the characteristic body movements that signify collapse, rigidity, rage, or defensiveness.

My angel of mercy.” The gut-wrenching words stabbed Masie in the chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called that. She looked down, horrified by what she saw. He was lying in a pool of blood, his hand out-stretched. “My angel,” he wheezed as he struggled to breathe. He was a warrior, strong and fearless. She bent down and whispered softly in his ear, “Close yer eyes and I’ll end yer pain.” She paused just before her teeth sank into his flesh. Something within his essence held her back. He had to live.

The ancient Greeks devised a term that accurately represented every inexplicable feeling that tormented humanity. Hoping that each word carried some relief within its letters. As if somehow a vague definition of such an intricate concept will fix the feeling of emptiness that follows its experience. But there was a word that the Greeks had not thought of: one that could define the smell of death. Evidently, there were a myriad of adjectives that could define this morbid aroma, yet I wondered if there were any words that could truly capture the revolting feeling that this smell evoked. It was an absolutely gut-wrenching sensation, and it vexed me so much that I couldn't pinpoint it to a single, distinct element of speech. Fuck the Greeks.

Understanding doesn’t mean agreement, just like forgiveness doesn’t mean you’re okay with what a person has done to you.” “What if I can’t?” My voice broke with the gut-wrenching turmoil I was in. “Then you stay locked in this prison of your own making.” “Fucking. A.” “Of epic proportions,” he concurred. “Piece of advice, it actually becomes comfortable if you’re not careful—a miserable existence that oddly you control.

he saw Cory on the ground just outside the hole in the rock face. He had a big bump on his head, and he was holding his right knee and glaring at him in disbelief. In his mind’s eye, Claude saw the bear bounding into the hole as he scurried away as fast as he could. He heard Cory’s gut wrenching scream and the sound of the grizzly ripping his friend apart.

rushing back to him in an instant, and with it came that awful feeling of gut-wrenching fear and foreboding with which he’d awakened each night.  Though he could still remember no other details about the dream, not even the reason why this barn filled him with irrational dread,

A Bellatrix Lestrange cake with crazy hair and murderous eyes. (Just to be clear, I’ve tried to make ones that don’t look like Helena Bonham Carter – not because I don’t love the woman, I do, you can’t not, but because, let’s face it, the Harry Potter books are the real deal, the films aren’t, but people look gut-wrenchingly disappointed when I do that, so I stick to the film version of the character

Wherever we stop is the summit. Iwas climbing Trail Ridge Road through the Rocky Mountains, determined to make the Continental Divide, when two sharp feelings pierced me almost at once. I, who have never had any trouble with heights, felt rushes of fear as I drove on narrow stretches 12,000 feet up. I was also filled with the irrevocable truth that everything-there-is is wherever we are. This all made me stop and walk the tundra above the treeline. There, I was overcome with the sudden truth that I could go no farther, and that I had no need to go any farther. Can it be that this journey through the mountains mirrors the journey through our lives? Is our suffering like the dizzying, gut-wrenching narrow passes through these ancient rocks? Do we simply move on until we can't, and in accepting our humanity, does the peak come to us? What an unlikely truth. I traveled as far as I could manage, and there on the bare scalp of the Earth, I realized that where I can go no further is my destination. This is the wearing of heart that no one can escape. Despite all our noble efforts to reach some treasured peak—be it a dream of wealth or love—we carry the summit within. And it is always the effort and exhaustion—the very journey itself—that opens the view which is everywhere. For the summit is not so much arrived at as we are worn open to it. I felt the truth of arriving at wherever my human limitations had left me, knew somehow it was enough, and I let out a cry like a vapor. We are as bare as these crags being worn by endless wind, and, regardless of the maps we carefully draw and pass down, we arrive at what we've always had when we use up everything we've saved. In this way we are brought to humility. Once accepting our frail humanity, we can see how stubbornly fragile living things are. We can see how it takes just a thin lick of water down a mountain crack to strengthen a root and a bare lick of love through our stony hearts to blossom a soul.

Derek…please.” Her tone is so soft and pleading. I don’t want to feel anything for her. No sympathy. No heart tugs. Nothing. But dammit, I do. Because this is Nora. My Nora. And this is why I told myself not to look in her eyes, because then I’ll see everything we once were reflected in them. I’ll see that she’s more gut-wrenchingly beautiful than ever, and no matter what she does or where she goes, in my heart she’ll always be mine. And I hate her for it.

A dark rider had come to collect me and I fought the urge to join him in anger and depression. He battered me with all manner of torturous thought: bone-breaking hate, gut-wrenching regret, and fantasies of self-justified revenge. The Observer knew that it was only illusion, only a chemical flash fire, but I burned alive in the emotions created by the storm. I struggled to find sleep, but sleep did not come that night.