Painted Scars Book Quotes

When I became convinced that the Universe is natural – that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world -- not even in infinite space. I was free -- free to think, to express my thoughts -- free to live to my own ideal -- free to live for myself and those I loved -- free to use all my faculties, all my senses -- free to spread imagination's wings -- free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope -- free to judge and determine for myself -- free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past -- free from popes and priests -- free from all the "called" and "set apart" -- free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies -- free from the fear of eternal pain -- free from the winged monsters of the night -- free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited places in all the realms of thought -- no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings -- no chains for my limbs -- no lashes for my back -- no fires for my flesh -- no master's frown or threat – no following another's steps -- no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds. And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain -- for the freedom of labor and thought -- to those who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains -- to those who proudly mounted scaffold's stairs -- to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn -- to those by fire consumed -- to all the wise, the good, the brave of every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.

They made her believe she was sick, and so she went willingly to a string of asylums, which were nothing more than polite prisons, places with no one to love her, just a bunch of well-meaning doctors being paid by her father. Who wouldn’t have scars?

In some of the early northern European paintings, Christ looks like you flushed him out from under a bridge, but in Sunday-school books and the sorts of pictures they sell at Christian supply stores, he falls somewhere between Kenny Loggins and Jared Leto, always doe-eyed and, of course, white, with brown—not black—hair, usually wavy. And he always has a fantastic body, shown at its best on the cross, which—face it—was practically designed to make a man's stomach and shoulders look good. What would happen, I often wonder, if someone sculpted a morbidly obese Jesus with titties and acne scars, and hair on his back? On top of that, he should be short—five foot two at most. "Sacrilege!" people would shout. But why? Doing good deeds doesn't make you good-looking.

He recognized her deft hand and eye for detail immediately. He flipped through the pages, past vignettes of the dairymaid and her vague-featured gentleman engaged in a courtship of sorts: a kiss on the hand, a whisper in the ear. By the book’s midpoint, the chit’s voluminous petticoats were up around her ears, and the illustrations comprised a sequence of quite similar poses in varying locales. Not just the dairy, but a carriage, the larder, in a hayloft lit with candles and strewn with…were those rose petals? I’ll be damned. Gray was fast divining the true source of the French painting master’s mythic exploits. More unsettling by far, however, as he perused the book, he noted a subtle alteration in the gentleman lover’s features. With each successive illustration, the hero appeared taller, broader in the shoulders, and his hair went from a cropped style to collar length in the space of two pages. The more pages Gray turned, the more he recognized himself. It was unmistakable. She’d used him as the model for these bawdy illustrations. She’d sketched him in secret; not once, but many times. And here he’d nearly gone mad with envy over each scrap of foolscap she’d inked for once crewman or another. His emotions underwent a dizzying progression-from surprised, to flattered, to (with the benefit of one especially inventive situation in an orchard) undeniably aroused. But as he lingered over a nude study of this amalgam of the real him and some picaresque fantasy, he began to feel something else entirely. He felt used. She’d rendered his form with astonishing accuracy, given that it must have been drawn before she’d any opportunity to actually see him unclothed. Not that she’d achieved an exact likeness. Her virgin’s imagination was rather generous in certain aspects and somewhat stinting in others, he noted with a bitter sort of amusement. But she’d laid him bare in these pages, without his knowledge or consent. God, she’d even drawn his scars. All in service of some adolescent erotic fantasy. And now he began to grow angry. He had been handling the leaves of the book with his fingertips only, anxious he might smudge or rip the pages. Now he abandoned all caution and flipped roughly through the remainder of the volume. Until he came to the end, and his hand froze. There they were, the two of them. He and she fully clothed and unengaged in any physical intimacies-yet intimate, in a way he had never known. Never dreamed. Sitting beneath a willow tree, his head in her lap. One of her hands lay twined with his, atop his chest. The other rested on his brow. The sky soared vast and expansive above, gauzy clouds spinning into forever. The hot fist of desire that had gripped his loins loosened, moved upward through his torso, churning the contents of his gut along the way. Then it clutched at his heart and squeezed until it hurt. Somehow, this illustration was the most dismaying of all. So naïve, so ridiculous. at least the bawdy situations were plausible, if sometimes physically improbable. This was utterly impossible. To her, he'd never been more than a fantasy. It occurred to Gray that more secrets might be packed within these trunks. If he sorted through her belongings, he might find the answers to all his questions. Perhaps answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. In spite of this, he let the lid of the trunk clap shut and fastened the strap with shaking fingers. He'd suffered as many of her fantasies as he could bear for one day. It was time to acquaint her with reality.

Nothing.” I hastily drew the manuscript toward me, my skin prickling when it made contact with the leather. Sean’s fingers were still holding the call slip, and now it slid easily out of the binding’s grasp. I hoisted the volumes into my arms and tucked them under my chin, assailed by a whiff of the uncanny that drove away the library’s familiar smell of pencil shavings and floor wax. “Diana? Are you okay?” Sean asked with a concerned frown. “Fine. Just a bit tired,” I replied, lowering the books away from my nose. I walked quickly through the original, fifteenth-century part of the library, past the rows of Elizabethan reading desks with their three ascending bookshelves and scarred writing surfaces. Between them, Gothic windows directed the reader’s attention up to the coffered ceilings, where bright paint and gilding picked out the details of the university’s crest of three crowns and open book and where its motto, “God is my illumination,” was proclaimed repeatedly from on high.

What if you have a pen and you can sketch a dream of another's? Sounds beautiful, right? It is even more wonderfully beautiful when you actually do it, for dreams are connected like all of our souls. Dreams are like little stars of our soul, and when you paint one with the stardust of your soul, be it yours or another's, the sky of your soul would always sparkle with the light of a tranquil smile. There is nothing more valuable than holding a hand and telling that person that you believe in that soul and that nothing is truly impossible, after all each and every soul is a reflection of this infinite Universe. There is no treasure richer than a smile of a heart, and when you sprinkle your goodness around and embrace all with the bliss of your own soul, with the love of your heart and the light of your mind, your door of happiness would always be unlocked where you can walk in anytime, and no matter how dark this cave of reality might be, the sky inside that door is always the brightest with a thousand sunshine of an infinite halo of dreams. I know and I have seen that when you are good while most of the people around would embrace you, get inspired and try to walk with you, there would also be a few who would doubt you and even try to pull you down by demotivating or derogatory words but do not let them win over your stardust, rather shine so bright that even their darkness is eaten up by your light. Let your good heart be your strength and walk with courage that God is the ultimate witness and the judge of all. Don't even halt for a second to think if you would help another, no matter how distant that person might be, in fact even if that person hasn't been good to you, or scarred you, you stay true to your path and treat everyone with compassion and love and know that in the book of Life every chapter finds a beginning and an ending, you paint that ending with a smile on the heart of every person you meet, knowing that smiles are the brightest sunshine of this Universe. The world might try to distract you and your mind might try to tell you that it doesn't matter, but then stay focused on this journey of Love and listen to your heart who knows that everything matters at the end of the day, after all nothing goes in waste ever. Help everyone even if that costs you something, because your help might just bring the most needed smile in a heart and every smile shines with a thousand radiance. Go an extra mile, and stay connected with every soul you have met in this voyage of Life because everyone you have come across has shaped your soul and your destination bit by bit. Value friends and family and say thank you and sorry often, not as a formality but as a reminder that every action or thought counts, knowing that relationships bloom like a watered plant. Resonate love and light and stay kind, no matter what falls on your path, because eventually all it takes is an iota of love to declutter a cloud of darkness. Let the goodness of your heart be your guide and keep holding that pen to sketch a dream of another's, because every dream is a painting of a soul in the Infinite canvas of this beautiful Universe. So, I decide to hold the pen and sketch a dream of another's. Do you?

I want to make a mural of his scars. Paint it on my bathroom wall and try to make sense of them because I bet if I stared at them long enough, I’d have an epiphany.

Shadows of Hope In the quiet neighborhood of Saint-Michel, nestled within the vibrant city of Montreal, lived Maria, a single mother of two. Maria was a woman of color, navigating the complexities of life as a Black woman in a society that often left her feeling invisible. Every morning, she would rise before dawn, the faint light of the sunrise just beginning to pierce through the heavy curtain of her small apartment. She made coffee while her children, Aisha and Malik, still clung to their dreams in the soft embrace of sleep. The weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders—the bills piling up on the kitchen table, the constant struggle to find stable work, and the fears of raising her children in a society that still bore the scars of racism. Quebec, with its rich culture and beautiful landscapes, often felt hostile. Maria had encountered discrimination at every turn: during job interviews, at the grocery store, and even at her children’s school. The subtle glances and dismissive comments gnawed at her confidence, but she refused to allow despair to set in. One day, Maria stumbled upon a local writing workshop at the community center. It was an escape, a chance to express her thoughts and experiences. At first, she hesitated, worried that her words would not resonate with others. But one evening, as the instructor encouraged them to write about their truth, Maria felt a spark ignite within her. She wrote about her daily struggles, the sacrifices she made, and the joy and laughter her children brought into her life. With each workshop, Maria poured her heart onto the pages—stories of resilience, strength, and the unbreakable bond between a mother and her children. The tales of systemic injustices, the late-night arguments about the fairness of the world, and the moments of triumph—like Aisha’s first dance recital and Malik’s science fair project—all painted a tapestry of her life. Months went by, and her stories began to take shape into a manuscript. Each chapter spoke to the experience of Black women who often felt unheard and unseen. Maria crafted her words with care, articulating the nuances of racism and motherhood, hope and hardship, transforming her painful experiences into powerful narratives. With the encouragement of her workshop peers, she sought out an agent, and to her surprise, her manuscript was accepted by a local publisher. Soon, her book, titled "Shadows of Hope," was scheduled for release. The day of the launch was filled with anxiety and excitement. Friends from the community, fellow single parents, and advocates for racial equality filled the small bookstore. As Maria took the microphone, she saw familiar faces—people who understood her journey. Her voice trembled slightly as she began to read passages from her book, allowing her audience a glimpse into her world. As she recounted the injustices she faced and the love she held for her children, the room filled with a palpable energy. The laughter of the audience mingled with tears of recognition and understanding. Maria realized that she wasn’t alone; her struggles mirrored those of many others, and her words had the power to inspire change. "Shadows of Hope" became a bestseller, resonating not just in Quebec but across Canada. Readers from all walks of life connected with her experiences, leading to conversations about race, motherhood, and resilience. Maria was invited to panels and discussions, her voice becoming a beacon for those seeking to address the inequities that existed in society. Through her newfound platform, Maria dedicated herself to advocating for other women of color. She started mentoring young girls in her community, empowering them to share their own stories and helping them navigate the oppressive spaces they encountered. In her heart, Maria knew that the road ahead would still have its challenges, but she had transformed her pain into purpose. Her journey showed that darkness could give birth to light, that voices mattered.

I don’t love horses.” “You don’t?” “Of course not. Horses are large smelly dim-witted creatures who serve no higher purpose than processing grass into shit.” “Then—” “But there is a one-eyed mare, with a white scar just here, for whom I would give all my lives if it might keep her happy forever. Your son’s horse, the one he calls Carillon, is so bright and playful that I start to laugh when I first smell his approach. There’s a medicine-hat paint, who has a cast in one eye—sometimes I look at her and think I’m seeing myself. One old gelding, who used to be black, follows her around like a body servant, because she won’t let the younger geldings and stallions pick on him.” “You don’t love horses. You love each horse,” Duncan says slowly, with a distantly thoughtful nod. “Personally.” “He doesn’t love people. He doesn’t even like people. He dislikes everyone he meets, on principle, because it gives him an excuse to be an asshole. But he loves you. He loves me.

Amelia Bedelia adored her bike. It was a great bike. It was fast and dependable and she had learned to ride on it. She could tell you how it had gotten every dent. She could tell you what had chipped each fragment of paint from the frame and what had made those rusty scratches on the chrome. She could match each insult to her bike to an injury on her body: scabs on her knees, scrapes to her elbows, bruises on her shins, and a tiny sliver of a scar under her chin.