Hart Quotes

We are each the authors of our own lives, Emma. We live in what we have created. There is no way to shift the blame and no one else to accept the accolades.

She thought of the library, so shining white and new; the rows and rows of unread books; the bliss of unhurried sojourns there and of going out to a restaurant, alone, to eat.

The past was always there, lived inside of you, and it helped to make you who you were. But it had to be placed in perspective. The past could not dominate the future.

You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.

That's how you know you love someone, I guess, when you can't experience anything without wishing the other person were there to see it, too.

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it, Secretly possess you.

Why is it so hard to articulate love yet so easy to express disappointment?

Scars are proof we can can survive

Memory can refuse to let you forget what you’d like to and run away with what you want to remember. It’s an unreliable bitch, or your best friend. Sometimes, it’s both at once.

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation. Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music of the night.

Home is anywhere that you know all your friends and all your enemies.

I have crossed oceans of time to find you.

But sometimes it's the sunshine that frightens us more than the big black shadows.

Hart and Hope,” I muttered. “If you’re going to name your kids like that, of course they’re going to think they live in a comic book.

Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.

I know everything and nothing about him all at the same time.

My choice of Muhammad to lead the list of the world's most influential persons may surprise some readers and may be questioned by others, but he was the only man in history who was supremely successful on both the religious and secular level.

Betsy returned to her chair, took off her coat and hat, opened her book and forgot the world again.

But I killed you,” Alyss said. “Did you?” Red turned to The Cat. “Why wasn’t I informed?

Love me - that's all I ask of you.

Sometimes, you turn back. Sometimes, you walk away. And sometimes, you find the place you're meant to be, and you stay there. You find a way to make it work. Whatever it takes.

Nobody is wired wrong, because there’s no wrong and right in the way we are.

And who are you supposed to be? My Prince Charming?" He snorts at that. "No, silly girl. I'm the big bad wolf.

Look in the mirror and say, 'There is none other like you and for that reason alone you are beautiful.

Fuck this. When life gets hard, ask Google. Google knows everything

Listening is an attitude of the heart, a genuine desire to be with another which both attracts and heals. (attr to J. Isham)

I DON’T have EX’s! I have Y’s. Like ‘Y the hell did I date you?!’ -Kevin Hart

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

Those in power write the history, while those who suffer write the songs.

All damaged people are dangerous. Survival makes them so.' 'Why?' 'Because they have no pity. They know what others can survive, as they did.

But the problem with looking back when you should be walking ahead is that you usually end up walking into something that hurts.

Say you'll love me every waking moment.

Perhaps one day (...) there will be a safer time, when women could walk the Earth, shining bright with power, and yet live.

In life, you can choose to cry about the bullshit that happens to you or you can choose to laugh about it. I choose laughter.

Sometimes,” Joe said after a bit, “it’s just easier to keep being what everyone expects you to be. Even if that’s what you’re not, anymore.

For in reason, all government without the consent of the governed is the very definition of slavery.

Memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since

Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.

In silence the three of them looked at the sunset and thought about God.

And there is nothing more dangerous in this world, in any world, than someone calm, clear and angry.

If I did better... I'd be God.

Too many years fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die? Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive, teach me to live, give me the strength to try! No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years. Help me say goodbye.

The hardest lies to detect are the ones surrounded by truth.

When everything changes we learn who we really are. What’s really important. What we want most. We discover the truth in moments of disarray.

Live in hope. Because things do happen. Things do change. Worry really is futile. Don't fear the future. Dreams do come true.

All the statistics in the world can't measure the warmth of a smile.

Ian closed his eyes. Beth watched emotions flicker across his face, the uncertainty, the stubbornness, the raw pain he’d lived with for so long. He didn’t always know how to express his emotions, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them deeply. When Ian slowly opened his eyes, he guided his gaze directly to Beth’s. His golden eyes shimmered and sparkled, pupils ringed with green. He held her gaze steadily, not blinking, or shifting away. “I love you,” he said. Beth caught her breath, and sudden tears blurred her vision. “Love you,” Ian repeated. His gaze bore into hers harder than Hart’s ever could hope to. “Love you, love you, love you, love you, love you, love you…

Manicures: Which are basically just holding hands with a stranger for forty-five minutes whilst listening to Enya.

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you want me with you, here beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go, too. Christine; that's all I ask of you.

You need to decide to stop letting their crazy box you in.

Braveness isn't always loud. Sometimes it's silent. There's braveness in sacrifice and kindness. It's in doing a thing that needs to be done, even though it's hard, and even though it hurts.

Wildly my Mind beats against you, but my soul obeys.

Then he kissed her. Betsy didn't believe in letting boys kiss you. She thought it was silly to be letting first this boy and then that one kiss you, when it didn't mean a thing. But it was wonderful when Joe Willard kissed her. And it did mean a thing.

I might be alone, but i'm never lonely.

Sometimes,” he said after a second that lasted a million years, “things get broken. And they can’t be fixed.

The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright.

Good things come, but they're never perfect; are they? You have to twist them into something perfect.

RAOUL: Free her! Do what you like, only free her! Have you no pity? PHANTOM: Your lover makes a passionate plea! CHRISTINE: Please, Raoul, it's useless... RAOUL: I love her! Does that mean nothing? I love her! Show some compassion... PHANTOM: The world showed no compassion to me!

Witch. The word slithers from the mouth like a serpent, drips from the tongue as thick and black as tar. We never thought of ourselves as witches, my mother and I. For this was a word invented by men, a word that brings power to those that speak it, not those that it describes. A word that builds gallows and pyres, turns breathing women into corpses.

Say, you told me you thought Les Miserables was the greatest novel ever written. I think Vanity Fair is the greatest. Let's fight. - Joe Willard

I waited for a long time and there was nothing but the pain of wanting something I couldn't seem to find.

I have written the only diet book that I believe needs to exist, and here it is: CHAPTER ONE: Eat a bit less. CHAPTER TWO: Move about a bit more. THE END.

I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't give you everything you wanted. I wasn't everything you wanted. You were everything I wanted.

You might as well learn right now, you two, that the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say.

Fiction became a friend as well as a safe harbor, a cocoon to protect her from the outside world and its dangers.

She tried to act as though it were nothing to go to the library alone. But her happiness betrayed her. Her smile could not be restrained, and it spread from her tightly pressed mouth, to her round cheeks, almost to the hair ribbons tied in perky bows over her ears.

A woman's orgasm is such a fragile thing, dependant as much upon her mind as on her clitoris.

People were always saying to Margaret, 'Well, Julia sings and Betsy writes. Now what is little Margaret going to do?' Margaret would smile politely, for she was very polite, but privately she stormed to Betsy with flashing eyes, 'I'm not going to do anything. I want to just live. Can't people just live?

Does madness bring creativity? Or does creativity cause madness? Can an artist create without the ups so high and the downs so low?

Those who do not have imaginary conversations do not love.

I could say his body was perfect and every part of it beautiful, because it was. Not because he had no flaws, but because I wanted him so desperately I couldn’t see any.

And yet, even as she spoke, she knew that she did not wish to come back. not to stay, not to live. She loved the little yellow cottage more than she loved any place on earth. but she was through with it except in her memories.

The most important part of religion isn't in any church. It's down in your own heart. Religion is in your thoughts, and in the way you act from day to day, in the way you treat other people. It's honesty, and unselfishness, and kindness. Especially kindness.

The past doesn't change no matter how much time you spend thinking about it. Good and bad all add up to the whole. Take away one piece, no matter how small, and the whole changes. Whether it's optimism, pessimism or fatalism, I don't spend my time wishing for the past to be different so present would be different, too. I control my future with what I choose now.

5.Buggre Alle this for a Larke I amme sick to mye Hart of typefetinge. Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges now more that a tighte fisted Southwarke Knobbefticke. I telle you, onne a daye laike thif Ennywone withe half and oz of Sense shoulde bee oute in the Suneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the lielong dale inn thif mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workefhoppe *AE@;I*

Sometimes grief is a comfort we grant ourselves because it's less terrifying than trying for joy. Nobody wants to admit it. We'd all declare we want to be happy, if we could. So why, then, is pain the one thing we most often hold on to? Why are slights and griefs the memories on which we choose to dwell? Is it because joy doesn't last but grief does?

There are many things I don’t know, but quite a few I do. I know you can’t be lost if you know where you are. I know that life is full of precious and fragile things, and not all of them are pretty. I know that the sun follows the moon and makes days, one after another. Time passes. The world turns, and we turn with it, and though we can never go back to the beginning, sometimes, we can start again.

There are many things I don't know, but quite a few I do. I know you can't be lost if you know where you are. I know that life is full of precious and fragile things, and not all of them are pretty. I know that the sun follows the moon and makes days, one after another. Time passes. The world turns, and we turn with it, and though we can never go back to the beginning, sometimes, we can start again.

Love couldn’t be moved by circumstance, poor choices, or even blatant lies—skewed and damaged, yes, but the heart couldn’t deny what it wanted most once the desire was planted. Whether in bliss or affliction, love owned you all the same.

Als ik één ding kan is het liefhebben. Dat lijkt niet veel bijzonders, maar ik ben er trots op. Ik heb het geleerd zoals een zwerfhond leert zwemmen: omdat hij met de rest van de worp in een jutezak werd gepropt en in een snelstromende rivier is geworpen. Die ene die het tegen alle verwachtingen in gered heeft, dat ben ik. Met in mijn oren nog het gejank van degenen die het niet haalden, moest ik leren ergens van te houden. Ik ben niet onder gegaan. Ik heb de kant bereikt. Ik heb lief. Andere mensen dragen hun verdriet in hun hart. Ongezien holt dat hen vanbinnen uit. Het is mijn redding geweest dat ik mijn verdriet aan de buitenkant draag, waar het niemand kan ontgaan.

Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light, and listen to the music of the night... Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams, purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar, and live, as you never lived before!

leaning in he kissed her gently, first on the cheek then on her lips. When he met her eyes, she saw the young man shed loved last summer and the young man she still loved now. "I never stopped loving you, Ronnie. and I never stopped thinking about you. even if summers do come and end" she smiled knowing he was telling the truth. "I love you too, Will Blakelee" she wispered, leaning in to kiss him again.

There are certain people who will always seek to criticize. This has nothing to do with you. It must be hard to be inside their head, you know? I mean if they find so much fault in everyone around them... then one can only imagine the faults they must see in themselves.

They say that childhood forms us, that those early influences are the key to everything. Is the peace of the soul so easily won? Simply the inevitable result of a happy childhood. What makes childhood happy? Parental harmony? Good health? Security? Might not a happy childhood be the worst possible preparation for life? Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.

We all have to get our hope from somewhere, and if getting lost between the pages of a deep book gives me hope, then I'll keep on getting lost, all the while hoping that one day I'll have a real love I can get lost in. Because it will happen, to each of us. One day we'll get so lost in love that we won't be able to find our way back out.

I have seen clouds part for the sun. I have seen rainbows. I have seen flowers in the morning, covered in dew, and I have seen sunsets so brilliant with fire they made me want to weep. And I have seen Dan smile at me, his lips still wet from my kiss, and if I had to choose which sight moved me the most I would say it was that one.

Sometimes when things break, you can hold them together for a while with string or glue or tape. Sometimes, nothing will hold what’s broken, and the pieces fly all over, and though you think you might be able to find them all again, one or two will always be missing. I flew apart. I broke. I shattered like a crystal vase dropped on a concrete floor, and pieces of me scattered all over. Some of them I was glad to see go. Some I never wanted to see again.

He’s supposed to look out for you.” “I do!” Kieran sounded offended. “You should be proud of her. Hart requested her presence personally at the Drake coronation.” I closed my eyes briefly. We were doomed. “You went to a vampire ceremony?” Grandpa asked evenly. “He didn’t know?” Kieran asked. “No, he didn’t.” “Sorry.” Grandpa vibrated with rage. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in my family!” “It’s different now,” Kieran tried to assuage him. “I’m dating Solange Drake. They’re a good family.” Grandpa went red, then purple. Kieran took a step back. I whacked Grandpa between the shoulder blades. “Grandpa, breathe!

There are few times when we know with absolute certainty we are going to do something for the last time. Life has a way of moving in circles, bringing us back to places we didn’t expect and taking us away from those we do. There are too many times we don’t pay close enough attention, and moments are lost in our assumption we’ll have another chance.

How you handle rejection is very similar to how you’ll handle success. If you’re strong enough to handle rejection without taking it personally, without holding a grudge, and without losing your passion and drive, then you’ll be strong enough to reap the rewards. But if you’re too weak to handle failure and disappointment, then you’re too weak to handle success, which will only end up damaging your life and happiness.

There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives. Those who are lucky enough to find it ease like water over a stone, onto its fluid contours, and are home. Some find it in the place of their birth; others may leave a seaside town, parched, and find themselves refreshed in the desert. There are those born in rolling countryside who are really only at ease in the intense and busy loneliness of the city. For some, the search is for the imprint of another; a child or a mother, a grandfather or a brother, a lover, a husband, a wife, or a foe. We may go through our lives happy or unhappy, successful or unfulfilled, loved or unloved, without ever standing cold with the shock of recognition, without ever feeling the agony as the twisted iron in our soul unlocks itself and we slip at last into place.

Don’t call her Sunshine,” he commanded. “Why not?” If Carrion’s plan was to poke the bear, then he sure as hell knew how to go about it. But Kingfisher didn’t respond to the taunting note in his question. He just cocked his head a little, nostrils flaring, and spoke in a low rumble. “Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is. What she could be. You should call her Majesty.

Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. God and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.

I just don't understand what you see in her," Sim said carefully. "I know she's charming. Fascinating and all of that. But she seems rather," he hesitated, "cruel." I nodded. "She is." Simmon watched me expectantly, finally said. "What? No defense for her?" "No. Cruel is a good word for her. But I think you are saying cruel and thinking of something else. Denna is not wicked, or mean, or spiteful. She is cruel." Sim was quiet for a long while before responding. "I think she might be some of those things, and cruel as well." Good, honest gentle Sim. He could never bring himself to say bad things about another person, just imply them. Even that was hard for him. He looked up at me. "I talked with Savoy. He's still not over her. He really loved her, you know. Treated her like a princess. He would have done anything for her. But she left him anyway, no explanation." "Denna is a wild thing," I explained. "Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don't say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna." "What's a hind?" "A deer." "I thought that was a hart?" "A hind is a female deer. A wild deer. Do you know how much good it does you to chase a wild thing? None. It works against you. It startles the hind away. All you can do is stay gently where you are, and hope in time that the hind will come to you.

إن اختياري محمداً ليكون الأول في أهم وأعظم رجال التاريخ قد يدهش القراء، لكنه الرجل الوحيد في التاريخ كله الذي نجح أعلى نجاح على المستويين: الديني والدنيوي، فهناك رُسل وأنبياء وحكماء بدءوا رسالات عظيمة، لكنهم ماتوا دون إتمامها، كالمسيح في المسيحية، أو شاركهم فيها غيرهم، أو سبقهم إليهم سواهم، كموسى في اليهودية، ولكن محمداً هو الوحيد الذي أتم رسالته الدينية، وتحددت أحكامها، وآمنت بها شعوب بأسرها في حيات؛ ولأنه أقام جانب الدين دولة جديدة، فإنه في هذا المجال الدنيوي أيضاً، وحّد القبائل في شعب، والشعوب في أمة، ووضع لها كل أسس حياتها، ورسم أمور دنياها، ووضعها في موضع الانطلاق إلى العالم. أيضاً في حياته، فهو الذي بدأ الرسالة الدينية والدنيوية وأتمها

I wanted you, nameless Woman of the South, No wraith, but utterly—as still more alone The Southern Cross takes night And lifts her girdles from her, one by one— High, cool, wide from the slowly smoldering fire Of lower heavens,— vaporous scars! Eve! Magdalene! or Mary, you? Whatever call—falls vainly on the wave. O simian Venus, homeless Eve, Unwedded, stumbling gardenless to grieve Windswept guitars on lonely decks forever; Finally to answer all within one grave! And this long wake of phosphor, iridescent Furrow of all our travel—trailed derision! Eyes crumble at its kiss. Its long-drawn spell Incites a yell. Slid on that backward vision The mind is churned to spittle, whispering hell. I wanted you . . . The embers of the Cross Climbed by aslant and huddling aromatically. It is blood to remember; it is fire To stammer back . . . It is God—your namelessness. And the wash— All night the water combed you with black Insolence. You crept out simmering, accomplished. Water rattled that stinging coil, your Rehearsed hair—docile, alas, from many arms. Yes, Eve—wraith of my unloved seed! The Cross, a phantom, buckled—dropped below the dawn. Light drowned the lithic trillions of your spawn.

. . . [Nietzsche] had the good manners to despise Christianity, in large part, for what it actually was--above all, for its devotion to an ethics of compassion--rather than allow himself the soothing, self-righteous fantasy that Christianity’s history had been nothing but an interminable pageant of violence, tyranny, and sexual neurosis. He may have hated many Christians for their hypocrisy, but he hated Christianity itself principally on account of its enfeebling solicitude for the weak, the outcast, the infirm, and the diseased; and, because he was conscious of the historical contingency of all cultural values, he never deluded himself that humanity could do away with Christian faith while simply retaining Christian morality in some diluted form, such as liberal social conscience or innate human sympathy.