Pertinent Love Quotes

But loneliness is as delusive a belief in the pertinence of the world as is love: in choosing to feel lonely, as in choosing to love, one carves a space next to oneself to be filled by others - a friend, a lover, a toy poodle, a violinist on the radio.

The city had seemed like a great place to discover who you are. It just seemed that there was a lot to experience here, as if all you had to do was show up and the city would take care of the rest, making sure you got the education, the maturing, the wising-up you needed. Its crowds, the noise, the endlessness of it all, the perpetual motion, felt exciting then—revealing—just the deep end I needed to jump into. There is something unique about New York, some quality, some matchless, pertinent combination of promise and despair, wizardry and counterfeit, abundance and depletion, that stimulates and allows for a reckoning to occur—maybe even forces it. The city pulls back the curtain on who you are; it tests you and shows you what you are made of in a way that has become iconic in our popular culture, and with good reason.

Naturally – she's an actress." He laughed wryly to himself. "Complications. Oh, yes." The doctor reflected and then said, "I always think a life without complications isn't really a life, you know. In life things go wrong, nothing stays the same and there's nothing you can do about it. Friends betray you, family is a nightmare, lovers are fickle. This is the norm, no?" He smiled to himself, as if remembering something pertinent. "What kind of a world would it be where nothing ever went wrong, where everything stayed the same, life followed a designated path – family was adorable, friends and lovers were faithful and true?" He paused. "You know, I don't think I'd like that kind of a world. We're made for complications, we human beings. Anyway, such a perfect world could never exist – at least not on this small planet.

To the accomplishment-oriented mother, what you achieve in life is paramount. Success depends on what you do, not who you are. She expects you to perform at the highest possible level. This mom is very proud of her children’s good grades, tournament wins, admission into the right college, and graduation with the pertinent degrees. She loves to brag about them too. But if you do not become what your accomplishment-oriented mother thinks you should, and accomplish what she thinks is important, she is deeply embarrassed, and may even respond with a rampage of fury and rage. A confusing dynamic is at play here. Often, while the daughter is trying to achieve a given goal, the mother is not supportive because it takes away from her and the time the daughter has to spend on her. Yet if the daughter achieves what she set out to do, the mother beams with pride at the awards banquet or performance. What a mixed message. The daughter learns not to expect much support unless she becomes a great hit, which sets her up for low self-esteem and an accomplishment-oriented lifestyle.

Because I have conducted my own operas and love sheep-dogs; because I generally dress in tweeds, and sometimes, at winter afternoon concerts, have even conducted in them; because I was a militant suffragette and seized a chance of beating time to The March of the Women from the window of my cell in Holloway Prison with a tooth-brush; because I have written books, spoken speeches, broadcast, and don't always make sure that my hat is on straight; for these and other equally pertinent reasons, in a certain sense I am well known.

I had come to New York when I was seventeen because—and maybe I was not fully conscious of this then—the city had seemed like a great place to discover who you are. It just seemed that there was a lot to experience here, as if all you had to do was show up and the city would take care of the rest, making sure you got the education, the maturing, the wising-up you needed. Its crowds, the noise, the endlessness of it all, the perpetual motion, felt exciting then—revealing—just the deep end I needed to jump into. There is something unique about New York, some quality, some matchless, pertinent combination of promise and despair, wizardry and counterfeit, abundance and depletion, that stimulates and allows for a reckoning to occur—maybe even forces it. The city pulls back the curtain on who you are; it tests you and shows you what you are made of in a way that has become iconic in our popular culture, and with good reason. In thirteen years, the city has kicked my ass and made me strong and served me well.

It’s a clichéd line to say you would die for love. It would be more pertinent to ask yourself, would you watch the person you love die to preserve that love?

There were places you didn't want to walk, precautions you took that had to do with locks on windows and doors, drawing the curtains, leaving on lights. These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive. But all of that was pertinent only in the night, and had nothing to do with the man you loved, at least in daylight.

The Manger of Incidentals " We are surrounded by the absurd excess of the universe. By meaningless bulk, vastness without size, power without consequence. The stubborn iteration that is present without being felt. Nothing the spirit can marry. Merely phenomenon and its physics. An endless, endless of going on. No habitat where the brain can recognize itself. No pertinence for the heart. Helpless duplication. The horror of none of it being alive. No red squirrels, no flowers, not even weed. Nothing that knows what season it is. The stars uninflected by awareness. Miming without implication. We alone see the iris in front of the cabin reach its perfection and quickly perish. The lamb is born into happiness and is eaten for Easter. We are blessed with powerful love and it goes away. We can mourn. We live the strangeness of being momentary, and still we are exalted by being temporary. The grand Italy of meanwhile. It is the fact of being brief, being small and slight that is the source of our beauty. We are a singularity that makes music out of noise because we must hurry. We make a harvest of loneliness and desiring in the blank wasteland of the cosmos.

INCONSEQUENTIAL GOOD, you said, describing your mother’s life, all her little efforts. A phrase less pertinent, less painful, to us, I think, since neither one of us, as far as I can tell, has claimed any gift for altruism, no outsized generosity, no impulse to shout back at the gobbling whirlwind—no furious ambition, for that matter, to do more than is reasonable about the chaos in the world. The awfulness. We hoped only, I think, you and I, to stay safe: to close as tightly as we could the circle of our affection—blood-deep, insistent affection for our own, for the few we could bear to love.

Every human being asks pertinent questions regarding how to live, what to believe in, and what we aspire to become. Throughout life, we question what desires and principles to value and prioritize – love, friendship, freedom, happiness, creativity, wealth, security. We make difficult decisions based upon what we trust constitutes ethical behavior. We balance out work and play by considering what a person’s time is worth. We encounter both joyful and unpleasant physical experiences. As we age, we modify some of our youthful assumptions and question the existence of a mystical and divine world. We engage in formal and informal educational activities, which edifying foundation support modest or dramatic shifts in our instinctive and learned behavior patterns, and alter our intellectual and emotional perspective. Each person aspires to live honorably and age gracefully despite encountering physical adversity, financial hardships, sickness, or injury.

I have laboured carefully, not to mock, lament, or execrate human actions, but to understand them; and, to this end, I have looked upon passions, such as love, hatred, anger, envy, ambition, pity, and the other perturbations of the mind, not in the light of vices of human nature, but as properties, just as pertinent to it, as are heat, cold, storm, thunder, and the like to the nature of the atmosphere, which phenomena, though inconvenient, are yet necessary, and have fixed causes, by means of which we endeavour to understand their nature, and the mind has just as much pleasure in viewing them aright, as in knowing such things as flatter the senses.

That I might investigate the subject matter of this science with the same freedom of spirit we generally use in mathematics, I have labored carefully not to mock, lament, or execrate human actions, but to understand them; and to this end I have looked upon passions such as love, hatred, anger, envy, ambition, pity, and other perturbations of the mind, not in the light of vices of human nature, but as properties just as pertinent to it as are heat, cold, storm, thunder, and the like to the nature of the atmosphere.

But all of that was pertinent only in the night, and had nothing to do with the man you loved, at least in daylight. With that man you wanted it to work, to work out. Working out was also something you did to keep your body in shape, for the man. If you worked out enough, maybe the man would too. Maybe you would be able to work it out together, as if the two of you were a puzzle that could be solved; otherwise, one of you, most likely the man, would go wandering off on a trajectory of his own, taking his addictive body with him and leaving you with bad withdrawal, which you could counteract by exercise.

I have laboured carefully, not to mock, lament, or execrate human actions, but to understand them; and, to this end, I have looked upon passions, such as love, hatred, anger, envy, ambition, pity, and the other perturbations of the mind, not in the light of vices of human nature, but as properties, just as pertinent to it, as are heat, cold, storm, thunder, and the like to the nature of the atmosphere, which phenomena, though inconvenient, are yet necessary, and have fixed causes, by means of which we endeavour to understand their nature, and the mind has just as much pleasure in viewing them aright, as in knowing such things as flatter the senses

Travelling in other’s shoes is a complex process. Everyone carries loads of inherited virtues and then, heaps of experience acquired while travelling their own exclusive path of life. One’s personality, particularly the way one thinks, beholds both inborn traits and learned knowledge. Unless one is born to the same parents as the other, exactly at same time, beholding same blend of inherent traits and travelled the same path the other has travelled so far—a biological and pragmatic impossibility—it is imprudent to claim having knowledge of other’s thought process. One’s uniqueness is not constrained to the physical form, but is pertinent, too, to intellectual, emotional and spiritual forms.

The photographer was taking pictures with a small pocket camera but the sergeant sent him back to the car for his big Bertillon camera. Grave Digger and Coffin Ed left the cellar to look around. The apartment was only one room wide but four storeys high. The front was flush with the sidewalk, and the front entrance elevated by two recessed steps. The alleyway at the side slanted down from the sidewalk sufficiently to drop the level of the door six feet below the ground-floor level. The cellar, which could only be entered by the door at the side, was directly below the ground-floor rooms. There were no apartments. Each of the four floors had three bedrooms opening on to the public hall, and to the rear was a kitchen and a bath and a separate toilet to serve each floor. There were three tenants on each floor, their doors secured by hasps and staples to be padlocked when they were absent, bolts and chains and floor locks and angle bars to protect them from intruders when they were present. The doors were pitted and scarred either because of lost keys or attempted burglary, indicating a continuous warfare between the residents and enemies from without, rapists, robbers, homicidal husbands and lovers, or the landlord after his rent. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti, mammoth sexual organs, vulgar limericks, opened legs, telephone numbers, outright boasting, insidious suggestions, and impertinent or pertinent comments about various tenants’ love habits, their mothers and fathers, the legitimacy of their children. “And people live here,” Grave Digger said, his eyes sad. “That’s what it was made for.” “Like maggots in rotten meat.” “It’s rotten enough.” Twelve mailboxes were nailed to the wall in the front hall. Narrow stairs climbed to the top floor. The ground-floor hallway ran through a small back courtyard where four overflowing garbage cans leaned against the wall. “Anybody can come in here day or night,” Grave Digger said. “Good for the whores but hard on the children.” “I wouldn’t want to live here if I had any enemies,” Coffin Ed said. “I’d be scared to go to the john.” “Yeah, but you’d have central heating.” “Personally, I’d rather live in the cellar. It’s private with its own private entrance and I could control the heat.” “But you’d have to put out the garbage cans,” Grave Digger said. “Whoever occupied that whore’s crib ain’t been putting out any garbage cans.” “Well, let’s wake up the brothers on the ground floor.” “If they ain’t already awake.

Sometimes adolescence is a controlled fall down a steep hill. You tuck and roll. The question of survival's pertinent once you reach the bottom of the hill and find that whole chunks of your character have been scraped away. Stuff you might need later to make friends and love someone.

Complications. Oh, yes.’ The doctor reflected and then said, ‘I always think a life without complications isn’t really a life, you know. In life things go wrong, nothing stays the same and there’s nothing you can do about it. Friends betray you, family is a nightmare, lovers are fickle. This is the norm, no?’ He smiled to himself, as if remembering something pertinent. ‘What kind of a world would it be where nothing ever went wrong, where everything stayed the same, life followed its designated path – family was adorable, friends and lovers were faithful and true?’ He paused. ‘You know, I don’t think I’d like that kind of a world. We’re made for complications, we human beings. Anyway, such a perfect world could never exist – at least not on this small planet.

I love to read. However, there have been times when certain books did not resonate with me because the timing was off kilter. Their lessons fell flat because their messages were not pertinent, relevant, or interesting to me at the time. Then, when I would re-read the same book years later, it could rock my world and change my life for the better. The message was more in alignment with where I was at that moment in time. With most anything, just because your timing may not be good now, does not mean it won’t be better later.

Still, the terrible odds excited him as if he were young. “Now . . . ,” he said, “now comes the pertinent question. What about the Sahand?

There is much you don’t know about Sookie,” Bill said. It was the first time he’d spoken since Madden had entered. “Know this: I will die for her. If you harm her, I’ll kill you.” Bill turned his dark eyes on Eric. “Can you say the same?” Eric plainly wouldn’t, which put him behind in the “Who Loves Sookie More?” stakes. At the moment, that wasn’t so relevant. “You must also know this,” Eric said to Victor. “Even more pertinently, if anything happens to her, forces you can’t imagine will be set into motion.

But all of that was pertinent only in the night, and had nothing to do with the man you loved, at least in daylight. With that man you wanted it to work, to work out. Working out was also something you did to keep your body in shape, for the man. If you worked out enough, maybe the man would too. Maybe you would be able to work it out together, as if the two of you were a puzzle that could be solved; otherwise, one of you, most likely the man, would go wandering off on a trajectory of his own, taking his addictive body with him and leaving you with bad withdrawal, which you could counteract by exercise. If you didn't work out it was because one of you had the wrong attitude. Everything that went on in your life was thought to be due to some positive or negative power emanating from inside your head. If you don't like it, change it, we said, to each other and to ourselves. And so we would change the man, for another one. Change, we were sure, was for the better always. We were revisionists, what we revised was ourselves. It's strange to remember how we used to think, as if everything were available to us, as if there were no contingencies, no boundaries, as we were free to shape and reshape forever the ever-expanding perimeters of our lives.

But all of that was pertinent only in the night, and had nothing to do with the man you loved, at least in daylight. With that man you wanted it to work, to work out. Workout out was also something you did to keep your body in shape, for the man. If you worked out enough, maybe the man wold too. Maybe you would be able to work it out together, as if the two of you were a puzzle that could be solved; otherwise, one of you, most likely the man, would go wandering off on a trajectory of his own, taking his addictive body with him and leaving you with bad withdrawal, which you could counteract by exercise. If you didn't work out it was because one of you had the wrong attitude. Everything that went on in your life was thought to be due to some positive or negative power emanating from inside your head. If you don't like it, chante it, we said, to each other and to ourselves. And so we would change the man, for another one. Change, we were sure, was for the better always. We were revisionists, what we revised was ourselves. It's strange to remember how we used to think, as if everything were available to us, as if there were no contingencies, no boundaries, as we were free to shape and reshape forever the ever-expanding perimeters of our lives.

Who is who? In the silence that sinks into you, In the seclusion that excludes you, You begin to realise without her you are not you, And you begin to believe in her more than you do in you, Wherever you might be, her thoughts seem stubbornly pervasive, And in this state of her pervasiveness you let her memories become invasive, And now you are no more you and this happens to you in phases successive, Now everything appears yonder and so inconclusive, But you love her because now she is a part of you, You exist in her and not in you, Even your heart revolts as it begins to beat for her and not for you, You no longer exist in days or months, you just exist in moments where you wonder without her what are you? In life everything seems pertinent because you have evolved into a poker face, Because no matter how hard you try, in the mirror, in your own reflection you see her face, A sort of a purgatory for true lover’s face, Where through some intermediary grace you now kiss her face, Because now it is difficult to tell who is who, Whether it is you, it is her, and you wonder who can tell; who? After struggling to define who is who, You let her face, her memories, her feelings, her heart beats define you. Because this is who you are, the real you! So let me love you Irma with this poker face, And see if you can find the grace in this superimposed face, And when million reflections are cast in the mirror of life let me see if you can identify the face, That loved you for your beautiful heart and your inward grace!

For an article, I only needed to read the first and last paragraphs followed by the initial sentence of each remaining paragraph, writing down pertinent dates and facts as I went. Finally, I had to make sure to read the foot- or endnotes to the article and circle back, because those would point to important information in the text.

As he spoke and she listened, the sounds of people talking, of children playing, became faint. The girl and he were alone under the great sailing moon. . . He told a story he was amazed to hear. What he had to say about horses seemed to have meanings pertinent to the whole world. He was clearing up mysteries for himself as he went along. If you got to the bottom of one subject, did the truth about all other subjects lie there, too? If you knew one thing fully, did you, in a way, know all? Was that the reason old farmers and coon hunters were so wise? Once before in his life he had been drunk. At the age of sixteen, he had sampled a jug of raw corn whisky. He had felt a kind of power at the time: as if he had transcended himself, were suspended above himself. This enabled him to see a lot of the world ordinarily not visible; he saw also his own smallness in this world. Now he was drunk again, but in an entirely different way. He was more himself than he had ever been before; and this was happening at the very minute when he was also more aware of another person than he had ever been before. How could this be? It contradicted all the rules of arithmetic. To give himself away and to have more left. He felt like saying his own name over and over again. . .that was who he had been, but might never be again; for this girl was making him over by listening to him. . . .it was not a one-sided conversation. . .he could never have done it without her. She taught him all his powers, showed him all his meanings. Until she asked her questions, he didn't know his answers. He had never in his life felt so radiant. She looked at him, she asked. He spoke. Something towered upward out of the interchange; together they opened up meaning he had never glimpsed before. . .

Ask the Divine to replace any energies that aren’t your own—whether these energies are emotional only, mental only, or a partnership of the two—with a healing stream of grace. (The Spirit- to-Spirit technique given in chapter 4 is a good way to separate and release others’ emotional energies.) Request also that your own feelings and beliefs, those lodged in and pertinent to your spiritual self, become animate and accessible.

It is commonplace constantly to set goals and be prideful of prior accomplishments. It is rare to take no satisfaction from prior achievements. When I finally secure modest economic rewards and achieve other milepost accomplishments that formerly eluded me, I no longer assign value to the blood works that I exquisitely labored to achieve. Why do I write off as silly all labor-intensive deeds that grievously taxed me? How do I end this cycle of pain and learn to let it be, accept the world as it is, and extend love and compassion to the entire world? Sometimes asking questions is more important than immediately discovering a fitting response. While writing this scroll, I ask an inordinate amount of questions, many of which direct inquiries prove unanswerable. The more penetrating the query, the more time it will take to construct a proper reply. Perhaps I should continue asking pertinent questions about the meaning of life until I discover how to live. Rainer Maria Rilke advised, ‘Live your questions now, and perhaps without even knowing it, you will live along some distant day into your answers.’ Exploratory writing addressing how to respond to distinct emotional turmoil is my first act of consciousness, my first attempt towards achieving self-awareness. Perhaps I can continue writing until I discover pathway to mindfulness, which Jeff Wilson described in his 2014 book ‘Mindful America: Meditation and the Mutual Transformation of Buddhism and American Culture,’ as ‘the intentional, accepting, and non-judgmental focus of one’s attention on the emotions, thoughts, and sensations occurring in the present moment.

Dahmer pursed his lips and looked at the three of us before answering. “Well, I didn’t mention this because I didn’t think it was pertinent to the investigation, and I didn’t want you to think I was torturing anyone, because I wasn’t. Remember, I told you that I was always disappointed after I killed them? Well, this was because, as I said, I wanted to keep them with me. I really wanted a warm, living body to lie with and make love to. I was trying to come up with a way to keep them alive, but render them helpless and completely under my control. I thought if I could find a way to do this, I wouldn’t have to kill anymore. So I began experimenting by drilling small holes in the top of their heads and injecting them with a syringe filled with various solutions while they were alive but still unconscious from the Halcion. I tried a boiling water mix with the Soilex. Then I tried formaldehyde and even the muriatic acid.