Nic Quotes

As long as you look for someone else to validate who you are by seeking their approval, you are setting yourself up for disaster. You have to be whole and complete in yourself. No one can give you that. You have to know who you are - what others say is irrelevant.

It's like if the music is loud enough I won't be able to listen to my own thoughts.

You can’t change how other people think and act, but you’re in full control of you. When it comes down to it, the only question that matters is this: If nothing in the world ever changes, what type of man are you gonna be?

You ever consider that maybe you not supposed to 'fit'? People who make history rarely do.

But she didn't fall. Someone was there, reaching an arm around her waist to steady her. She looked up expecting to see Nic, but it was Magnus. His dark brows were drawn tightly together. "Problem, princess?

How can both Nics, the loving and considerate and generous one, and the self-obsessed and self-destructive one, be the same person?

Certain experiences you can't survive, and afterward you don't fully exist, even if you failed to die.

they say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. the problem with being human isn't really so temporary.

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

Isn't that the greatest gift in the world-just not to care?

And though I have done many shameful things, I am not ashamed of who I am. I am not ashamed of who I am because I know who I am. I have tried to rip myself open and expose everything inside - accepting my weaknesses and strengths - not trying to be anyone else. 'Cause that never works, does it? So my challenge is to be authentic. An I believe I am today. I believe I am.

I feel so completely crazy sometimes. I don't know which way I'm facing. All I can do is just shove all this shit to the side and try to move forward.

People often learn more from getting an undeserved pass than they would from being punished.

When it worked, reading could take away the burden of time.

It was like being in a car with the gas pedal slammed down to the floor and nothing to do but hold on and pretend to have some semblance of control. But control was something I'd lost a long time ago.

We come here to tell stories so that we can manage the past without being swallowed by it.

I feel just, you know, defeated.

I always get so overwhelmed trying to do everything perfectly. I can't do a job and not put everything I have into it. I need to be the best employee, the best co-worker, the best whatever. I need everyone to like me and I just burn out bending over backward to make that happen. Having people be mad at me is my worst fear. I can't stand it. There is this crazy fear I have of being rejected by anyone - even people I don't really care about. It's always better to leave them first, cut all ties, and disappear. They can't hurt me that way - no one can.

You can't change how other people think and act, but you're in full control of you.

How in the fuck is that even possible? Was Hades sleeping on the job o something?" "Yes, Seth, he took a nap and Perses snuck in the back door and let them out. Then they skipped through the Vale of Mourning, stopped to have a pic-a-nic and then decided to leave the Underworld all slow-like, and all the while Hades was chillin' and doing nothing." That sounded probable.

Fortunately I have a son, my beautiful boy Unfortunately he is a drug addict. Fortunately he is in recovery. Unfortunately he relapses. Fortunately he is in recovery again. Unfortunately he relapses. Fortunately he is not dead.

- Kompania mi się trafiła - podjął Geralt, kręcąc głową. - Towarzysze broni! Drużyna bohaterów! Nic, tylko ręce załamać. Wierszokleta z lutnią. Dzikie i pyskate pół driady, pół baby. Wampir, któremu idzie na pięćdziesiąty krzyżyk. I cholerny Nilfgaardczyk, który upiera się, że nie jest Nilfgaardczykiem. - A na czele drużyny wiedźmin, chory na wyrzuty sumienia, bezsiłę i niemożność podjęcia decyzji - dokończył spokojnie Regis. - Zaiste, proponuję podróżować incognito, by nie wzbudzać sensacji. - I śmiechu - dodała Milva.

O kraju świadczą jego Zwierzęta. Stosunek do Zwierząt. Jeżeli ludzie zachowują się bestialsko wobec Zwierząt, nie pomoże im żadna demokracja ani w ogóle nic.

Nic's going to be an old maid," Michael said, giggling. "What?" she snapped. "How do you even know what that means? You're like, four years old." "Mommy said it," Michael answered. Bernie coughed, nearly choking on her food as Peter and Xavier laughed into their napkins.

Through Nic's drug addiction, I have learned that parents can bear almost anything....I shock myself with my ability to rationalize and tolerate things once unthinkable. The rationalizations escalate....It's only marijuana. He gets high only on weekends. At least he's not using hard drugs....

Some people. Something happens to them. Usually when they're young. And they never get any better.

But before you say something “isn’t fair,” you should consider your starting point versus someone else’s.

SJ: Ah, okay... so you're saying people just need to pull themselves up by their boostraps? Jared: Exactly. SJ: In order to do that, they have to be able to afford boots.

Yeah, there are no more “colored” water fountains, and it’s supposed to be illegal to discriminate, but if I can be forced to sit on the concrete in too-tight cuffs when I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s clear there’s an issue. That things aren’t as equal as folks say they are.

Nic is writing 'I am sorry', and I want to cry. No, I think, don't let him in again. No don't let him in again. No don't let him in again.

Yogi was fast on his heels as Dex sped through the lounge, down the busy corridor, and past the training bays. “Excuse me! Coming through!” Shit, shit, shit! Who’d have thought Yogi would like Cheesy Doodles as much as he did? “Give them here!” Yogi growled. “Go find your own pic-a-nic basket!” The deep feral growl he received in response was most likely a “no.

We only have this one moment: NOW.

Błogosławiony ten, co nie mając nic do powiedzenia, nie obleka tego faktu w słowa.

Bo kto nie był ni razu człowiekiem, Temu człowiek nic nie pomoże.

I've found that all weak people share a basic obsession - they fixate on the idea of satisfaction. Anywhere you go men and women are like crows drawn by shiny objects. For some folks, the shiny objects are other people, and you'd be better off developing a drug habit.

At my worst, I even resented Nic because an addict, at least when high, has a momentary respite from his suffering. There is no similar relief for parents or children or husbands or wives or others who love them.

A vlastně ať je navždy po tvém A navěky je vůle tvá A život je když něco zbylo A smrt když už nic nezbývá

None of them seem as crazy obsessive about everything as I am. It's strange 'cause I had the same feeling in high school that I have here. It's like, well, it just seems so easy for everyone else and so difficult for me. I turn from these extremes of feeling on top of the fucking world - to feeling so despondent. They don't have to struggle like I do - or maybe that's just me comparing my goddamn insides to everyone else's outsides. But I swear to God, I just seem to wrestle with everything more than anyone else.

I knew the past wasn't real. It was only an idea, and the thing I'd wanted to touch, to brush against, the feeling I couldn't name - it just didn't exist. It was only an idea, too.

No a czary, jak wiadomo, skoro raz się zaczną, to nic już ich nie powstrzyma.

You’re here because it’s somewhere. Dogs pant in the streets. Beer won’t stay cold. The last new song you liked came out a long, long time ago, and the radio never plays it anymore.

What do I do when my very identity is being mocked by people who refuse to admit there’s a problem?

I don't want you to worry about protecting my feelings or your father's or anybody's. When you were little you always tried to make everyone ahppy. Then it was like one day you just exploded.

We go out into this fucked up world together.

Ja nie mam nic, ty nie masz nic, on nie ma nic - zaśmiał się głośno. - To razem właśnie mamy tyle, w sam raz tyle, żeby założyć wielką fabrykę. Cóż stracimy? Zarobić zawsze można

Płacz; lecz niestety, boleść przypomnienia Nas samych trawi, a nic wkoło nas nie zmienia!

Nic staggered back a foot. "Why have you pursued me out into the streets? I cant help you. Leave me alone." "Can't do that. Not yet. First, I really must know something of great importance." The prince moved closer still. Before Nic could fumble for his sword to protect himself form attack, Ashur took his face between his hands and kissed him. Nic stood there, frozen in place. This was not what he'd expected. At all.

There’s no getting out alive, but you hope to avoid a deadline.

You ever consider that maybe you not supposed to ‘fit’? People who make history rarely do.

When she's worried Vivien gives herself pedicures and facials. Nic lifts weights. I bake. So, Vivien ends up looking more glamourous. Nic gets fitter. And I just get fat.

- (…) Jak Niemcowi powiesz “zakazane”, to znaczy “zakazane”. Jak Ruskiemu to powiesz - to samo. Spróbuj powiedzieć to Polakowi. “Zakazane” to są dla niego od razu trzy możliwości: częściowo zakazane i trzeba ściemniać, zakazane, ale nie do końca, tak jakby zakazane i niezakazane jednocześnie. I najprostsza możliwość. Zakazane? Aha, to znaczy nikt nic nie wie i rób, co chcesz. - Jezu Chryste, nigdy nie zrozumiem tego narodu. Jak wyście przetrwali tyle wieków? - Właśnie dzięki temu.

I thought if I made sure to be an upstanding member of society, I’d be exempt from the stuff THOSE black guys deal with, you know? Really hard to swallow that I was wrong.

I would miss having Nic in my life. I would miss his funny phone messages and his humor, the stories, our talks, our walks, watching movies with him, dinners together, and the transcendent feeling between us that is love. I would miss all of it. I miss it now. And here it sinks in: I don't have it now. I have not had it whenever Nic has been on drugs. Nic is absent, only his shell remains. I have been afraid - terrified - to lose Nic, but I have lost him.

There's something about outward appearances that has always been important to me. I always thought I was so ugly. I mean, I really did. I remember being in L.A. at my mom's house as a little kid and just staring into the mirror for hours. It was like, if I looked long enough, maybe I'd finally be handsome. It never worked. I just got uglier and uglier. Nothing about me ever seemed good enough. And there was this sadness inside me - this hopelessness. Focusing on my physical appearance was at least easier than trying to address the internal shit.

What I remembered about the man then was how helpless he'd seemed, and how you could tell that helplessness had made him cruel.

I suppose you have to be very careful how you use your memories.

You have got to get creative if you want anyone to notice your goddamn teenage angst.

I like to pic-a-nic more than a bee likes to bumble.

I always wanted to try the Turkish Delight in Narnia. When I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as a boy, I used to think that Turkish Delight must be incredibly delicious if it made Edmund betray his family,” A.J. says. “I guess I must have told my wife this, because one year Nic gets a box for me for the holidays. And it turned out to be this powdery, gummy candy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my entire life.

They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. he problem with being humas isn't really so temporary

Why try to do right if people will always look at me and assume wrong?

The past isn't real.

Something passed close to me then, a feeling or piece of knowledge, but I couldn't quite get it. A sense of something I'd once known or felt, a memory that wouldn't come into the light. I kept reaching, but I couldn't grasp the thing. It felt near, though.

Life is a journey without a map, and as such, we'll all encounter twists and turns that force us to correct our course or change directions entirely.

I BELIEVE THAT UNARMED TRUTH AND UNCONDITIONAL LOVE WILL HAVE THE FINAL WORD IN REALITY. —REVEREND DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. NOBEL PEACE PRIZE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, DECEMBER 10, 1964

Nice vest, Sophie,” said Luca, straight off the bat. “I can barely see you.” “Luca.” I tore my attention away from Nic for the amount of time needed to throw his brother a contemptuous glare. “A pleasure, as always.” […] “Ignore Luca. That’s just his bad attempt at trash-talking you,” Nic cut in, sending his brother a glare on my behalf. “And my way of pointing out that she’s small,” Luca added. “Thanks, Sherlock. I know I’m small.” “Just making sure.” “Do you even have a brain-to-mouth filter?” I asked. “I try not to overuse it,” he returned blithely. “Clearly.” “Don’t cry about it, Day-Glo.

I’ve got one memory of the day everything happened: sharp pains in my chest and shoulder, and then not being able to breathe. In that moment when I thought I was dying, it hit me: despite how good of a dude Martin was, they still killed him, man.

And that feeling is there, inside me - being small, with all the confusion and worry and longing - but also the peace and safety. And now I'm here, giving that feeling to Lucy. She is an angel - light and sweet and delicate and lovely. That is so there in her. But it's also in Spencer, in my dad lying with me as a child on the futon, It's even in me. Sure, I buried it. I buried and buried it and turned away from everything light and sweet and delicate and lovely and became so scared and scarred and burdened and fucked up. But that goodness is still there, inside - it must be.

The last new song you liked came out a long, long time ago, and the radio never plays it anymore.

It's like there are seven candles lit in my stomach. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven candles burning and smoking - lit - seven flames of doubt, fear, sorrow, pain, waste, hopelessness, despair. They turn my insides black with soot and ash. There is something at the back of my eyes - a pressure building, building, building - hot like the flames of seven candles, which no amount of breath can extinguish.

I see Nic on the plane. I see him as he is - frail, opaque, ill - my beloved son, my beautiful boy. "Everything," I say to him. "Everything." Fortunately there is a beautiful boy. Unfortunately he has a terrible disease. Fortunately there is love and joy. Unfortunately there is pain and misery. Fortunately the story is not over.

I'm all right, Nic," Wolfe said, and finally looked at him. "We walked through the dungeons under Rome, survived Philadelphia, and this perfumed cage won't bring us to our knees. We're all stronger than that." "All right," Santi said. "But don't ask me to stop standing next to you. Because you know I will, however much you shout about it.

And that’s what it comes down to. We find the families we were desperate for and learn different ways of going about things. Ways that sometimes land us in places/positions we don’t really wanna be in.

That idiot ‘pundit’ would rather believe you and Manny were thugs than believe a twenty-year veteran cop made a snap judgment based on skin color. He identifies with the cop. If the cop is capable of murder, it means he’s capable of the same. He can’t accept that.

You’re born and forty years later you hobble out a bar, startled by your own aches. Nobody knows you. You steer down lightless highways, and you invent a destination because movement is key. So you head toward the last thing you have left to lose, with no real idea what you’re going to do with it.

I want to stay hidden in this apartment forever. I want to be kept like a house cat.

Resist when the world tries to convince you otherwise.

No need to send a king when a princess will do.

The dark is settling in. The sky glows yellow- pale- anemic from the city lights. The Tenderloin at night is a real horror show. Every 3 feet someone is accosting you with a plea for a handout or the offer of drug or sex. The men and women wander the streets and alleys with a threatening, violont want. Takers looking to take, hustlers looking to hustle, all trying to satisfy a craving that is parpatually unsatisfiable. And tonight I'm one of them.

Still, there was a bored sadness to her. And a resignation I’d seen on faces my whole life—people giving up, crossing over to that place without struggle—and I wanted to alter that.

When I read I got involved in the words and what they were saying so that I didn't measure the passing of time in typical ways. I was surprised to learn that there was this freedom made of nothing but words. Then I felt like I had missed some crucial point, a long time ago.

Maybe having schizophrenia is my big fuck-you to the status quo. Only, I guess at this point, being normal and well-adjusted would be, like, the biggest fuck-you of them all. So I guess I'll just try to shoot for that, if I can.

But I don’t think knowing he’d be killed would’ve changed the way he lived, Jus. He challenged the status quo and helped bring about some change. Pretty sure that was his goal. Wouldn’t you agree?

It’s like I’m trying to climb a mountain, but I’ve got one fool trying to shove me down so I won’t be on his level, and another fool tugging at my leg, trying to pull me to the ground he refuses to leave.

Honestly, I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing this. It's like there are seven candles lit in my stomach. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven candles burning and smoking - lit - seven flames of doubt, fear, sorrow, pain, waste, hopelessness, despair. They turn my insides black with soot and ash. There is something at the back of my eyes- a pressure building, building, building - hot like the flames of seven candles, which no amount of breath can extinguish. I imagine drinking glasses of water. One, two, three four, five, six, seven. I dive into the clearest pool. I drown myself in the coarse, dry sand. I swallow handfuls of crushed white salt, but the flames burn still - brighter, hotter, deeper. Sweat runs in delicate patterns down my back, over my crooked spine and jutting hips. I scratch at the wounds these last weeks have left, but I can't break free of them. The flies gather and vultures circle overhead. The fire eats away my flesh. The fire spreads. The fire runs through my veins. The fire courses beneath my muscles - my tendons - the marrow of my bones. I sit rocking on the street corner. No, I can't keep doing this. I just can't.

Dzieje kultury wykazują, ze głupota jest siostrą bliźniaczą rozumu, ona rośnie najbujniej nie na glebie dziewiczej ignorancji , lecz na gruncie uprawnym siódmym potem doktorów i profesorów. Wielkie absurdy nie są wymyślane przez tych, których rozum krząta się wokół spraw codziennych. Nic dziwnego zatem, że właśnie najintensywniejsi myśliciele bywali producentami największego głupstwa. / The history of culture shows that foolishness is a twin sister of wisdom. It does not flourish on the fields of pure ignorance but on the fields tirelessly plowed by doctors and professors. Great absurdities do not flourish where one is busy with everyday life. No wonder that sometimes most vigorous thinkers come up with utmost stupidities. (Dziennik 1956, XIX, Thursday)

Nic begins writing hard, a word, I, two words, am, three words, sorry, writes them again, writes them again, writes them again, writes them again. He cannot, it seems, stop writing them. It is bullshit, a cheap attempt at - it is not bullshit, he is trying with excruciating desperation, which I can feel coming from him, to say something, to get out something that he cannot get out. It's easy to forget that no matter how hard it is for us, it is harder for him.

I remember a buddy of mine once telling me that every woman you loved was a mother and sister you didn't have, at once, and that what you were always really looking for was the female part of yourself, your female animal or something. This guy could get away with saying something like that because he was a junkie and read books.

We’re all good when we want to be, otherwise we’re fucking animals. There’s no VIP room in reality, and there is no reality in this city. You can’t Google the answers. People talke about being on the ride of your life—THIS IS YOUR LIFE. Whatever you need to know, you already know. Imagine what it is to be in another country, another landscape—heat, insects, fear. Imagine watching someone right in front of you trip on a wire, step on a mine, blow their body to shreds, in mid-sentences, mid-cigarette. Imagine yourself splattered with human flesh. Imagine talking to that boy for the five minutes when he is profoundly conscious of the fact that he is not goingt to make it home. Imagine the difference between that and being in upstate New York, drinking beer, trying to get laid, and spending the summer as lifeguard at Lake George. Imagine zipping your friends into body bags. Tell me why anyone ever thought this was a good idea. How could anyone not be angry? You’d have to be insane.” --Nic Thompson

I need everyone to like me and I just burn out bending over backward to make that happen. Having people be mad at me is my worst fear. I can't stand it. There is this crazy fear I have of being rejected by anyone - even people I don't really care about. It's always better to leave them first, cut all ties, and disappear. They can't hurt me that way - no one can.

because I was asking the wrong damn question. Every challenge I’ve faced, it’s been What would Martin do? and I could never come up with a real answer. But if I go with Doc’s thinking—Who would Martin BE?—well, that’s easy: you’d be yourself. THE eminent MLK: nonviolent, not easily discouraged, and firm in your beliefs.

It’s like I’m trying to climb a mountain, but I’ve got one fool trying to shove me down so I won’t be on his level, and another fool tugging at my leg, trying to pull me to the ground he refuses to leave. Jared and Trey are only two people, but after today, I know that when I head to Yale next fall (because I AM going there), I’m gonna be paranoid about people looking at me and wondering if I’m qualified to be there. How do I work against this, Martin? Getting real with you, I feel a little defeated. Knowing there are people who don’t want me to succeed is depressing. Especially coming from two directions.

Ach tak! tak ją kochałem! Pójdęż teraz trwożyć I na kochanka larwę potępieńca włożyć? Po co? czego chcę od niej? o zazdrości podła! I jakież są jej grzechy? Czyli mię słówkiem dwuznacznym podwiodła? Czy wabiącymi łowiła uśmiechy albo kłamliwe układała lice? I gdzież są jej przysięgi, jakie obietnice? Miałemże od niej choć przez sen nadzieję? Nie! nie! sam urojone żywiłem mamidła, Sam przyprawiłem jady, od których szaleję! Po cóż ta wściekłość? jakie do niej prawa? Co za moją wzgardzoną przemawia osobą? Gdzie wielkie cnoty? świetne czyny? sława? Nic! Nic! Ach, jednę miłość mam za sobą!

Turn on the news, another black man slain. They say "Its okay. Save your voice, don't complain. This isn't about race so stop using that excuse. Now look at this funny picture of Obama in a noose! See how colorblind we are? You're not really black to me. Underneath, where it all matters, we both bleed red you see? So put away that race card: it aint 1962. Theres no more segregation, isn't that enough for you?

What’s glamorous is being a good father, a good husband, a good fucking dog owner. That’s what I care about today. That’s what matters. I will devote everything to that. And I will succeed. Because I cannot fall down again. I will not fall down again. I mean, I don’t have to fall. None of us have to fall. We don’t all fall down. We don’t. So I’m over this drug shit. It’s done. And this is my last recovery memoir ever.

Błogosławiony ten, co nie mając nic do powiedzenia, nie obleka tego faktu w słowa. Cnotliwa kobieta nie goni za mężem, bo kto widział, by pułapka goniła mysz? Egoista: ten, który więcej dba o siebie niż o mnie. Pesymista twierdzi, że wszystkie kobiety to nierządnice. Optymista twierdzi, że nie, ale ma nadzieję. Pojęcia takie jak: wieczność, bezgraniczność zaczynam rozumieć dopiero wtedy, gdy załatwiam jakąś sprawę w urzędzie. Powiedzieć komuś: idiota! – to nie obelga, lecz diagnoza. Różnica między wielbłądem i człowiekiem – wielbłąd może pracować przez tydzień nie pijąc; człowiek może przez tydzień pić nie pracując. Żyj tak, aby znajomym zrobiło się nudno, gdy umrzesz.

You're supposed to make your child feel like you want them. No matter what. Even if you're tired, or you're stressed, or you have a fucking photo shoot, or you move across the world, or you haven't gotten a full night's sleep. You do whatever you can to make them feel like the only thing you want in the world is to be by their side, even if you can't.

Now and then she looked harassed by her own potential, like certain young people, and you might notice then the way a stillness spread through her eyes, and her unguarded face forgot to play a role, just look stunned by confusion and remorse, while the features of this face were organized by a kind of country pride that wouldn't admit confusion or remorse.

But, when I was growing up, the one thing that did help me not to feel so isolated and crazy was reading - especially books by authors who fearlessly examined and exposed their highly imperfect inner lives. Books like "Confessions of a Mask" by Yukio Mishima; "Tropic of Cancer" by Henry Miller; "Try" by Dennis Cooper; and, of course, the works of authors like Bukowski, Salinger, Hesse, Bataille, Iceberg Slim, and Murakami. These writers revealed the things that existed beneath most humans' seemingly secure and confident exteriors. I suddenly realized, after reading their work, that I wasn't unique - that my doubts and fears and insecurities were more universal that I could've ever imagined. Their words gave me strength. They have me permission to start trying to accept my flaws, my darkness, my insanity. They let me know that it was okay not to fit in with everyone else - to be a sensitive person - and that others struggled just like I did. It was such a relief when I finally began to understand this. It was like I could breathe - maybe for the first time.

So there you have it: hearing voices at sea is not a pathological condition. It’s quite normal. Welcome to the world of illusions at sea. Of mirages, looming, towering, stooping and sinking. Of moons that change size, suns that change shape, horizons that bend, lights that change colour, and sounds that play hide and seek. Of waves that speak, ships that effervesce and whales that turn into baby elephants. For the sea has a lobsterpot full of tricks and illusions to confuse and beguile even the most rational 21st century sailor.