Lin Lie Quotes

I am the one thing in life I can control. I am inimitable; I am an original. I'm not falling behind or running late. I'm not standing still: I am lying in wait.

If man be sensible and one fine morning, while he is lying in bed, counts at the tips of his fingers how many things in this life truly will give him enjoyment, invariably he will find food is the first one.

and i don't think you should lie to me with any nature poems because you know you don't think sand is beautiful unless you are in a good mood, which you never are

There is a certain proper and luxurious way of lying in bed. Confucius, that great artist of life, "never lay straight" in bed, "like a corpse", but always curled up on one side. I believe one of the greatest pleasures of life is to curl up one's legs in bed. The posture of the arms is also very important, in order to reach the greatest degree of aesthetic pleasure and mental power. I believe the best posture is not lying flat on the bed, but being upholstered with big soft pillows at an angle of thirty degrees with either one arm or both arms placed behind the back of one's head.

What I will tell you, son of sons, is this: shortly, if not already, you will begin noticing the blackness inside us all. You will develop black secrets and commit black actions. You will be shocked at the insensitivities and transgressions you are capable of, yet you will be unable to stop them. And by the time you are thirty, your friends will all have black secrets, too, but it will be years before you learn exactly *what* their black secrets are. Life at that point will become like throwing a Frisbee in a graveyard; much of the pleasure of your dealings with your friends will stem from the contrast between your sparkling youth and the ink you now know lies at your feet. Later, as you get to be my age, you will see your friends begin to die, to lose their memories, to see their skins turn wrinkled and sick. You will see the effects of dark secrets making themslves know - via their minds and bodies and via the stories your friends - yes, Harmony, Gaia, Mei-lin, Davidson, and the rest - will begin telling you at three-thirty in the morning as you put iodine on their bruises, arrange for tetanus shots, dial 911, and listen to them cry. The only payback for all of this - for the conversion of their once-young hearts into tar - will be that you will love your friends more, even though they have made you see the universe as an emptier and scarier place - and they will love you more, too.

The outstanding characteristic of Western scholarship is its specialization and cutting up of knowledge into different departments. The over-development of logical thinking and specialization, with its technical phraseology, has brought about the curious fact of modern civilization, that philosophy has been so far relegated to the background, far behind politics and economics, that the average man can pass it by without a twinge of conscience. The feeling of the average man, even of the educated person, is that philosophy is a "subject" which he can best afford to go without. This is certainly a strange anomaly of modern culture, for philosophy, which should lie closest to men's bosom and business, has become most remote from life. It was not so in the classical civilization of the Greeks and Romans, and it was not so in China, where the study of wisdom of life formed the scholars' chief occupation. Either the modern man is not interested in the problems of living, which are the proper subject of philosophy, or we have gone a long way from the original conception of philosophy.

He asked if there were more things she had lied about. She said she had to think. She said she was still thinking. After about two minutes she said she was still thinking.

that it is not when he is working in the office but when he is lying idly on the sand that his soul utters, “Life is beautiful

in Howard was in one of those moods during which crazy ideas sound perfectly sensible. A bullish, handsome man with decisive eyebrows and more hair than he could find use for, Lin had a great deal of money and a habit of having things go his way. So many things in his life had gone his way that it no longer occurred to him not to be in a festive mood, and he spent much of his time celebrating the general goodness of things and sitting with old friends telling fat happy lies. But things had not gone Lin’s way lately, and he was not accustomed to the feeling. Lin wanted in the worst way to whip his father at racing, to knock his Seabiscuit down a peg or two, and he believed he had the horse to do it in Ligaroti.1 He was sure enough about it to have made some account-closing bets on the horse, at least one as a side wager with his father, and he was a great deal poorer for it. The last race really ate at him. Ligaroti had been at Seabiscuit’s throat in the Hollywood Gold Cup when another horse had bumped him right out of his game. He had streaked down the stretch to finish fourth and had come back a week later to score a smashing victory over Whichcee in a Hollywood stakes race, firmly establishing himself as the second-best horse in the West. Bing Crosby and Lin were certain that with a weight break and a clean trip, Ligaroti had Seabiscuit’s measure. Charles Howard didn’t see it that way. Since the race, he had been going around with pockets full of clippings about Seabiscuit. Anytime anyone came near him, he would wave the articles around and start gushing, like a new father. The senior Howard probably didn’t hold back when Lin was around. He was immensely proud of Lin’s success with Ligaroti, but he enjoyed tweaking his son, and he was good at it. He had once given Lin a book for Christmas entitled What You Know About Horses. The pages were blank. One night shortly after the Hollywood Gold Cup, Lin was sitting at a restaurant table across from his father and Bing Crosby. They were apparently talking about the Gold Cup, and Lin was sitting there looking at his father and doing a slow burn.

Facts are delusion," he said. "They are a delusion of truth as a mirage is a delusion of sight. The real facts lie in people's minds and not in fingerprints and books and photographs and all the other physical things which are only the accidents that occur as a result of what lies in the mind. Truth is a matter of the mind and all else is only a blurred shadow to reconstruct the original image. Bit it is the image we are searching for.

Dolphins felt top-heavy, that year, most of the time, and wanted to lie down. When their heads weren’t on top they still felt top-heavy, but metaphysically. In public places they felt sad. They went into restrooms, hugged themselves, and quietly went, ‘Eeeee eee eeee.’ Weekends they went to playgrounds alone. They sat in the top of slides—the enclosed part, where it glowed a little because of the colored plastic—and felt very alert and awake but also very sad and immature. Sometimes they fell asleep and a boy’s mother would prod the dolphin with a broom and the dolphin would go down the slide while still asleep. At the bottom they would feel ashamed and go home and lie in bed. They felt so sad that they believed a little that it was their year to be sad, which made them feel better in a devastated, hollowed-out way. Life was too sad and it was beautiful to really feel it for once; to be allowed to feel it, for one year. When dolphins had these thoughts, usually on weekends at night, it was like dreaming, like a pink flower in a soft breeze on a field was lightly dreaming them. The sadness was like a pink forest that got less dense as you went in and then changed into a field, which the dolphins walked into alone. Sometimes the sadness was like a knife against the face. It made the dolphins cry and not want to move. But sometimes a young dolphin would feel very lonely and ugly and it was beautiful how alone it felt, and it would become restless with how perfect and elegant its sadness was and go away for a long time and then return and sit in its room and feel very alone and beautiful.

It was spring, not winter or autumn, Paul thought with some lingering confusion. He listened to the layered murmur of wind against leaves, familiarly and gently disorienting as a terrestrial sound track, reminding people of their own lives, then opened his MacBook—sideways, like a hardcover book—and looked at the internet, lying on his side, with his right ear pressed into his pillow, as if, unable to return to sleep, at least in position to hear what, in his absence, might be happening there.

Only the weak need to lie,

He was destined to die lying in the dust with a knife in his ribs anyway. A pointless death. He’d always known it. Ailey was the only one who had ever asked for him to be anything more.

It had been a lie on that park bench. I like you, he’d said back, when what he’d really meant was, I love you. You’re the only one. Stay with me.

Lin reflected how much power mere money had. Lying in the purse it was just coins. Let loose from confinement, it was blankets against the cold, and candied chestnuts. It was an old lady clad in a new dress with hibiscus flowers on it.

Je regarde : pas une de ces collines autour de moi qui ne se peuple d’anciennes présences où je puisais chaque fois la même angoisse et le même apaisement. […] Un seul appel et les voici tous autour de moi, ces hommes qu’au long des années j’ai rejoints dans leur solitude passagère pour les mieux interroger sous la vivante lumière des saisons. « Qui es-tu ? » demandais-je au faucheur, au laboureur, au herseur, au moissonneur, à demi submergé d’épis — ces taches au loin blanches, fauves, ou bleues perdues dans l’immense paysage — et tous à ma question silencieuse ont donné la réponse la plus simple, la plus belle qui se puisse : « Je suis ». Mais avec eux le pays tout entier répondait aussi et sa réponse était la même. Car je le sais enfin, un perpétuel et profond échange le lie à chacun d’eux. Le ciel d’août se fanerait comme une fleur de lin s’il ne reprenait vie à leur regard, le vent retomberait comme un oiseau mort s’il ne devenait leur souffle. (« Campagne perdue », in « Écrits », vol. 3, 1978, pp. 196 - 198)

Lying... definitely isn't right. But there's no one so perfect that they only do the right thing. For instance, fighting is wrong... but I've done it, Lin Hang's done it, even Qiu Tian's done it. But it's not like we're bad people for having done some wrong things... right? In this world, having a [requited] love is rare enough... that we are one of those few... is incredibly lucky.

Thrana had to be carried to the courtyard and lifted into a covered cart. Mephi hovered by the side of the cart, making worried little noises in the back of his throat. “She’ll be fine,” I told him as servants hurried past us. My gaze kept flicking to the door to the entrance hall where Lin lingered as she spoke with Chala, her long sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Neither looked happy. “You did this too, remember?” He looked between me and Thrana lying unconscious in the cart. “I looked like that?” He sidled over to me, winding about my legs. “No wonder you were worried.” “I couldn’t have woken you even if I had five fresh-caught fish in hand.” “Impossible!” I laughed at his shocked expression.

I buried my face in her fur, wrapping my arms around her neck. She waited patiently while I sobbed, my tears wetting her chest. I’d been so foolish—a child yearning for connection. And he’d taken advantage of that, letting me seek out his approval the way I’d sought my father’s. I had to be stronger than that. “I sent him away,” I told Thrana. “He lied and I told him to leave.” She let out a breath. It smelled of the ocean. A heavy paw came to rest on my back—her version of an embrace. I sagged into it, knowing that even though I loved her, it wasn’t enough for me. “You need other people,” she said, as though reading the thoughts in my head. “This is not good.” “It was the only thing I could do.” “I know. But, Lin—we were both hurt. I trust you now. You need this too.” I drew back, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “How do I find the right people? I don’t seem to be good at finding them.” She puffed up, as though proud to be giving me advice. “You make a mistake. You try again.” Her tail lashed. I let out a rueful laugh. I wished it were as simple as Thrana made it sound.

Reigh Farrow! Are you even listening to me? You’re in no shape to be walking anywhere! I can’t believe Kiran even let you leave Ms. Lin’s house like this. You’ve torn nearly all your stitches and you’re bleeding all over your clothes.” Phoebe fussed like an angry sparrow, her voice echoing down the hallway before I even got to the top of the stairs. “Go back and lie down right now. So help me, I know where you keep your chaser root tea, and I will sedate you if that’s what it takes—HEY! Don’t make that face at me; I’m just trying to keep you alive! Isandri didn’t put up any fuss at all, but you’re acting like a big baby.

I don’t believe you.” Jing Lin paused, feeling as if he had said this word before. “Whether you believe it or not is up to you. Whether to say it or not lies with me.” Cang Ji said.

it is while prone that ideas come. “A writer could get more ideas for his articles or his novels in this posture than he could by sitting doggedly before his desk morning and afternoon,” writes Lin Yutang in his essay “On Lying in Bed.

With a soft murmur, deep in her throat, she let herself sink down onto the mat and closed her eyes. Her arm served as a pillow. The lantern light flickered over the room while Kaifeng sat back and let himself be tormented by her silhouette. Save for his own stubbornness, he could be lying beside her, their limbs entwined. He leaned back against the wall and let the light ebb away into darkness.

Look at your father. He doesn't sleep when you're gone. He's worked his whole life to help you go farther. And he can't admit when he's wrong. Now who does that remind you of? You two deserve each other! For months you've lied to us. What did we do to make you think we wouldn't do anything and everything for you? When you have a problem you come home. You don't run off and hide from your family all alone! You hear me? When you have a problem you come home. As long as we're alive, you're never on your own.

How those in power would always fight to stay in power. Lie, cheat, perform despicable acts, even as everyone below them suffered.