Romeo And Juliet Fate Quotes

Oh, I am fortune's fool!

It only took Romeo one look at Juliet and his fate was sealed. Maybe I’m just like my namesake, and maybe you’re just like yours.

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

If I’m Romeo and she’s Juliet, maybe this is the fate I put on us that very first day. Love forbidden, but in our story, we’re forbidden by fate. Maybe I was the placeholder, as Mason wondered. Maybe I’m not the man of her dreams but the understudy who did the noble work. Who befriended a broken girl. Who showed her what it meant to matter to a man, how it felt to be loved. She knows now that she’s worth the world and deserves even more.

honestly i don't understand the rousing of romance all that well. i used to believe in this thing called fate, or destiny. a romantic romeo and juliet, monet and veronica, etc. but now i feel jaded, maybe agnostic to the idea. but choice used to seem so unromantic, as if some mystic force was not behind the meeting of 2 beautiful individuals. but now i think choice is the greater of the two simply for this fact: by choosing someone you are saying that out of all the people in the entire world i have decided that i want you apart of my life in perpetuum, for the rest of my life, and no one else. no haphazard circumstance, no chance meetings where distant planets align. it's simply two rational individuals who make a choice and an effort to remain together.

It only took Romeo one look at Juliet and his fate was sealed. Maybe I’m just like my namesake, and maybe you’re just like yours.” His

Love is simply too strong a word to be of much use in ordinary, day-to-day relationships. Love is for Romeo and Juliet.

It was as if malignant fate had come between him and the notebooks, just as fate had come between Romeo and Juliet.

I love you, Carina Amelia Gallo. You were made for me, and no matter where you are or how much time passes, I will always find you, because our love is fated, and Romeo needs his Juliet.

Tancredi and Angelica were passing in front of them at that moment, his gloved right hand on her waist, their outspread arms interlaced, their eyes gazing into each other's. The black of his tail coat, the pink of her dress, combining formed a kind of strange jewel. They were the most moving sight there, two young people in love dancing together, blind to each other's defects, deaf to the warnings of fate, deluding themselves that the whole course of their lives would be as smooth as the ballroom floor, unknowning actors made to play the parts of Juliet and Romeo by a director who had concealed the fact that tomb and poison were already in the script. Neither of them was good, each full of self-interest, swollen with secret aims; yet there was something sweet and touching about them both; those murky but ingenuous ambitions of theirs were obliterated by the words of jesting tenderness he was murmuring in her ear, by the scent of her hair, by the mutual clasp of those bodies of theirs destined to die. . . For them death was purely an intellectual concept, a fact of knowledge as it were and no more, not an experience which pierced the marrow of their bones. Death, oh yes, it existed of course, but it was something that happened to others. The thought occurred to Don Fabrizio that it was ignorance of this supreme consolation that made the young feel sorrows much more sharply than the old; the latter are nearer the safety exit.

before I could reach a conclusion as to whether I’d fallen in love or not, I was terrified by the fate of the lovers I’d gone over in my mind. Almost all of them had suffered a sorrowful fate, ending in death and disaster Layli and Majnun, death and disaster. Shirin and Farhad, death and disaster. Romeo and Juliet, death and disaster. Paul and Virginie, death and disaster. That love story in the newspaper, death and disaster.

A faint singing seemed to issue from the walls... yes, it was as though the walls themselves were singing!... The song became plainer... the words were now distinguishable... he heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice... but, for all its softness, it remained a male voice... The voice came nearer and nearer... it came through the wall... it approached... and now the voice was in the room, in front of Christine. Christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one: "Here I am, Erik," she said. "I am ready. But you are late." Raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, which showed him nothing. Christine's face lit up. A smile of happiness appeared upon her bloodless lips, a smile like that of sick people when they receive the first hope of recovery. The voice without a body went on singing; and certainly Raoul had never in his life heard anything more absolutely and heroically sweet, more gloriously insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, irresistibly triumphant. He listened to it in a fever and he now began to understand how Christine Daaé was able to appear one evening, before the stupefied audience, with accents of a beauty hitherto unknown, of a superhuman exaltation, while doubtless still under the influence of the mysterious and invisible master. The voice was singing the Wedding-night Song from Romeo and Juliet. Raoul saw Christine stretch out her arms to the voice as she had done, in Perros church-yard, to the invisible violin playing The Resurrection of Lazarus and nothing could describe the passion with which the voice sang: "Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!" The strains went through Raoul's heart.

Do fate and life really bestow such misfortunes? Do people really have to join forces and separate so inexorably and ruthlessly two children, two vital young beings, attracted to one another by invincible sympathy and love? Upon returning to my room I sat down, exhausted, as if after a long day’s march; a terrible, oppressive feeling of loneliness took possession of my soul. At that moment I would have given half my life for one hour of another meeting. If I’d known what was awaiting me, I would, of course, without even thinking, have given my entire life for nothing and died willingly with my unlimited trust in him, in total satisfaction, in the full flowering of my first chaste feeling, still uncrushed, not yet humiliated in my own eyes, with an inviolably pure and unattainably lofty ideal in my soul. Yes, our love was pure and holy; to die then and there – would mean to die like Romeo and Juliet. I don’t know of a loftier, more beautiful, splendid death!

From now on, I will no longer leave our fate up to the whims of the universe.

In his theory of tragedy, Nietzsche captured the delicate balance, in the genuinely tragic, between the creation of forms and the dissolving of forms. Our individual lives, Nietzsche suggests, are transitory and in some sense illusory, ephemeral shapes that emerge from the energy that is the universe and that, in short order, are reabsorbed into the oneness. The enriching tragic in life can be missed in two ways. We can attribute ourselves and our productions an illusory permanence, like a deluded builder of sandcastles who believes his creation is eternal. Or, alternatively, we can be defeated by our transience, unable to build, paralyzed as we wait for the tide to come in. Nietzsche envisions the tragic man or woman, living life to the fullest, as one who builds sandcastles passionately, all the time aware of the coming tide. The ephemeral, illusory nature of all form does not detract from the surrender to the passion of the work; it enhances and enriches it. The genuinely romantic reflects this subtle blend of qualities that Nietzsche discovered in the tragic. The lover builds the castles of romance as if they would last forever, knowing full well they are fragile, transitory structures. And the splitting Freud termed "psychical impotence" is an effort to reduce the risk by segregating permanence from adventure. Those boring, sturdy castles over there will last forever; these other fanciful castles are only one-night stands. But in that splitting, something very important is lost. For authentic romance is tragic in Nietzsche's sense. It ends in death; it is never simply stable; at its best it comes and goes, perpetually lost and rediscovered. "Love dies or else lovers die," notes Harold Bloom in his discussion of Romeo and Juliet, "those are the pragmatic possibilities." Romantic passion requires a surrender to a depth of feeling that should come with guarantees. Unfortunately, there are no guarantees. Life and love are inevitably difficult and risky, and to control the risk we all struggle to locate and protect sources for both safety and adventure, often in different relationships.

Tancredi and Angelica were passing in front of them at that moment, his gloved right hand on her waist, their outspread arms interlaced, their eyes gazing into each other’s. The black of his tail-coat, the pink of her interweaving dress, looked like some unusual jewel. They were the most moving sight there, two young people in love dancing together, blind to each other’s defects, deaf to the warnings of fate, deluding themselves that the whole course of their lives would be as smooth as the ballroom floor, unknowing actors set to play the parts of Juliet and Romeo by a director who had concealed the fact that tomb and poison were already in the script. Neither was good, each self-interested, turgid with secret aims; yet there was something sweet and touching about them both; those murky but ingenuous ambitions of theirs were obliterated by the words of jesting tenderness he was murmuring in her ear, by the scent of her hair, by the mutual clasp of those bodies destined to die.