Ryka Aoki Quotes

Tomorrow is tomorrow. Over there is over there. And here and now is not a bad place and time to be, especially when so much of the unknown is beautiful.

The world is changing, you know. A pity you aren’t ready to live in it.

When you rush, all you are doing is practicing your mistakes at a faster pace.

Who needs the Devil when people can create a hell like this themselves?

To be filled with such music, yet be unable to play. She was not unfamiliar with what that could do to a soul.

Maybe the universe is filled with introverts?

One does not play memories of music; one plays music itself. And lifetimes, from beginning to end, are as sheets of music, ready to be played.

With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured... when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you. You can always, always rewrite your song

You can always, always rewrite your song.

Think of a piece of music. Is it not a miracle that each time the notes are played, the music is reborn?

What would happen if someone played their existence not only to its inevitable end, but also to its inevitable beginning? What if someone played their music to its inevitable everything?

A good bread tastes like home.

Music, sometimes great music, from the hands and hearts of those who infuse their art with their very souls.

Let her feel old and broken. Let her feel childish and naïve. There was no need to be perfectly beautiful, nor immortal, nor untouchable. After all, none of that was needed to write a poem or to sing a song.

No one drives a Prius in space,

No, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to make donuts—but that didn’t mean being a rocket scientist didn’t help.

Katrina thought of all the nights she felt certain she would die alone. With no one to care, and a million things left unsaid. Even Ms. Satomi didn't know how difficult it was when you didn't feel real. Even Ms. Satomi didn't know how it felt when the only real thing genuine about you was the hurt your existence caused.

Nice mouthfeel. Creamy. Not at all like the eggs that one might buy at the store. I assume this chicken ate worms in the garden.’ Shirley tasted again. ‘Yes. These eggs. Definitely worms,’ she said before passing the fork back to Katrina.

Well, if you feel that strongly about your truth, then there is no reason to worry about your existence, is there?

But what if everything she had told herself was a lie? What if it wasn’t about what she was, but that she was? What if something about her was intrinsically, inherently wrong?

There was still work to do; there would be good days ahead, and terrible ones. But now there was understanding. And with understanding, all things were possible.

what is reality but a song that one imagines and sets free?

Being a living trans person means vigilance. For a non-passing trans person, there is no safe space. It is not who we are kissing, but our very heights, our voices, and the size of our hands that catalyze hatred and violence. Forget activism; simply negotiating one’s world every day, constantly judging, adjusting, scanning one’s surroundings, and changing clothes to go from one role to another can be overwhelming. Add to that cases of family disownment, poverty, homelessness, HIV. When a recent study of transgender youth reports that half their sample had entertained thoughts of suicide, and a quarter of them had made at least one attempt, I am not surprised.

Even Miss Satomi didn’t know how difficult it was when you didn’t feel real. Even Miss Satomi didn’t know how it felt when the only real thing genuine about you was the hurt your existence caused.

Most often, however, we arrive at planets like this one … long forgotten after the Endplague has left them for dead. I played Handel. The survivors cried. They told me of the crimes they had committed. I told them of mine. Many were angry. More were ashamed. They asked, “Do we even have the right to hear this music? Is this okay?” But as I played, they listened. And slowly, their music welcomed them home. What did they find? Perhaps themselves. Perhaps each other—who am I to say? All I know is that I was not playing alone.

Finally. A rainbow flag on the door, a compost pile in the yard. Katrina had arrived.

Think of a piece of music. Is it not a miracle that each time the notes are played, the music is reborn? No scratches, no fading, no loss of fidelity?

They were saying this simply because a girl playing the violin was transgender. So stupid. So insignificant.

Tomorrow is tomorrow. Over there is over there. And here and now is not a bad place and find to be, especially when so much of the unknown is beautiful.

The audience wanted transgender? They would get transgender. Or queer, or whatever else they wanted. But they would also get her. And she was beautiful.

I shall make you feel all the joy, the terror in loving who you are.

Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine. To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these?

Yet the pond did not acquire more fish. For the older ones, the graceful ones...the chosen ones, the brilliant ones, the ones gilded with darkness, with flame...were also the ones who ate their young.

Listen to me. Listen to me now. For if this dogwood bow can force beauty upon you, then I shall shove every part of myself into that beauty. I shall make you feel all the joy, the terror in loving who you are.

How do we mourn when we know that we, too, have been cruel to both the living and the dead? For all the lifetimes of being mistreated, mistrusted, broken lost. For all the lifetimes of bullying, betraying, cowardice, and shame. Yes, there is music in this. And yes, this music is you.

I tried to play louder to make them listen. I tried to play harder so they would understand. I tried to play and play and play, because as long as I played, everything would be okay. “But then my hand started to hurt. And then the pain got worse. Much worse—to the point where I would touch the violin and my entire arm felt like it was on fire.

As a civilization progresses, it goes through wars, pandemics, catastrophes. those that survive grow more astute, more perceptive, more advanced. Diseases are conquered, infirmity eliminated. Life spans increase. Suffering becomes largely a memory. "Meanwhile, their explorers and historians find evidence of past cultures, and cultures before that. At first it is exciting. But all they keep finding are ruins. And slowly, either through science or history, every advanced civilizations becomes aware of a disturbing possibility -- that their futures may end in ruin too. "The civilization then rushes to probe other stars, even other galaxies; it increases its research, attempting to manipulate space, time, in the hope that somewhere, someone might have found an escape, a loophole. "But eventually, the find, and solve, the mathematical equation that explains the entire universe." "I think our scientists are working on something like that too," Shizuka said. Lan shook her head. "They'll need to find the Grand Unified Theory a few more times before they can even begin to understand what 'everything' is -- sorry, I didn't mean to offend your civilization." Shizuka shrugged. "No offense taken." "Still, should your civilization survive, it will eventually find the same equation. And that will be your death sentence. For in that equation, there will be no forever, no eternity. Nothing. "And this collapse, and all its attendant despair, is the Endplague." Shizuka was puzzled. Space aliens, she could understand. Purple skin? Cute. Two elbows? Weird, but fine. Galactic warfare? Frankly, expected. Being a refugee? Of course. But how could the mere concept of mortality be enough to topple advanced civilizations? People live, people die, and so what?

Heartache comes from glimpsing over one's shoulder, the yearning for Thanksgiving, the persistent memory of sweetness. Breaking comes from knowing exactly how it could have been.

surprises were one thing, and concerns were another.

Mr. Tso was benevolent and terrifying in that rich uncle mixture of awe, respect, and hope that one might inherit his collection of Bentleys.

Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine. To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these? In the same way, there is nothing transcendent about a violin. It is maple, spruce, ebony, an ounce or so of hide glue, some brushes of varnish. Perhaps this why the violin fits the human soul fit so perfectly—only such a simple, mortal object can hold its fragility and turn it into a prayer.

Tomorrow is tomorrow. Over there is over there. And here and now is not a bad place and time to be, especially when so much of the unknown is beautiful

Yes, it was so sad that Shizuka had to be beautiful, going everywhere with those sunglasses on. The world is much clearer when one looks like a toad.

Music had always been one of Hell's most prudent investments, and Tremon took a workmanlike joy in deliving a steady dividend of crushed dreams, bitterness and, above all, souls

There was no way Sunglass Lady was a warp expert. They were on a technologically primitive planet, in El Monte.

Yet, instead of rushing to explore these theories, rather than discussing the speed of light, mortality, or entropy, their most popular communications were about film stars, religion, dating applications, games, and all matters of pornography. Were they that backward? Were they too primitive to care?

After all, in the lights, it is very difficult to see.

Her voice sounded like ashes that were surrounded by fire, yet too tired to burn.

If being queer had taught her anything, it was that there was always a price.

When someone needs to fly, sometimes it’s best to pull the ground away.

Why was she born this way, a human being? Why did being human hurt so much? Why couldn't she have been different, without a soul, without worth? Why couldn't she have been the thing her parents might have wanted? Why couldn't anyone have treated her this way before?

In my business, one does not care about bodies. One is only concerned with souls.

A sandwich that is more than a sandwich. Coffee that is more than coffee.

Think of a piece of music. Is it not a miracle that each time the notes are played, the music is reborn? No scratches, no fading, no loss of fidelity.

When you think of love, is it somewhere the colors are brighter and everything seems to glow?

Even Miss Satomi didn’t know how it felt when the only real thing genuine about you was the hurt your existence caused.

Music had always been one of Hell’s most prudent investments, and Tremon took a workmanlike joy in delivering a steady dividend of crushed dreams, bitterness, and, above all, souls.

Why did being human hurt so much? Why couldn’t she have been different, without a soul, without worth? Why couldn’t she have been the thing her parents might have wanted?

She felt happy. She felt dizzy. She felt almost like a real human being.

Breaking comes from knowing exactly how it could have been. Sadness, regret … these come from more than being just a victim, an innocent survivor. They come from seeing wasted chance after wonderful, wonderful wasted chance. They come from knowing the good that has slipped through your fingers, as well.

Life could not be avoided. Death comes for everyone. But that did not mean one could not be healed. That did not mean one could not be saved.

Shirley, you can't control how people see you. All you can do is accept it, right?" ... "But what if their views don't match what [I] know is true?" "Well, if you feel that strongly about your truth, then there is no reason to worry about your existence, is there?

And my student bought this with every penny she had.” Shizuka said the last line innocently, but Lucy could feel the gaze of the Queen of Hell. If you dare laugh at her or her violin, I will burn your soul and this entire shop to ash.

Traveling through space-time is like driving through Los Angeles. Universes pass by like random cars on the four-level at rush hour.

Los Angeles has days of blue sky, mountains, beach, eighty-two degrees, and palm trees all around. But LA truly becomes a paradise on those rare days with clear traffic, no obstacles, no accidents, just miles and miles of pure smooth road and any lane to choose.

But LA truly becomes a paradise on those rare days with clear traffic, no obstacles, no accidents, just miles and miles of pure smooth road and any lane to choose.

another primitive shithead who thought going 0 to 0.00000089469 times the speed of light in 6.6 seconds was something to brag about.

Helvar Grunfeld’s Fine Violin Shoppe did look a little too much like it had been painted by Thomas Kinkade.

give your child her final lesson: With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured … when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you. You can always, always rewrite your song.

You're still too tense. Relax your fingers. Unless you relax, the notes will sound indistinct." "But this is just before the level boss!" Katrina cried. "I don't care. The level boss can wait until you play with satisfactory détaché.

Who needs the Devil when people can create a hell like this for themselves?

Goodbye, Helvar. The world is changing, you know. A pity you aren’t ready to live in it.

Then, Lucy heard a strange music. Unlike any before. It wasn't that it was beautiful; she'd heard plenty of beautiful music. But this made her heart race, and her body eager and jittery. Like it did when she held a sharp knife or a box of matches. Or walked over a bridge and wondered how it would feel to jump.

Cursed or not, she drew her bow across as she would draw her breath. Queer or not, she would play with a cursed bow and be called an abomination. Trans or not, deviant or not, that did not mean there was anything wrong with her love.

The songs will change, but the music is never truly gone. A life ends. A life begins. But always, it is here for us to play.

How many children had each of them had? Yet the pond did not acquire more fish. For the older ones, the graceful ones … the chosen ones, the brilliant ones, the ones gilded with darkness, with flame … were also the ones who ate their young.

With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured … when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you. You can always, always rewrite your song.

But here, all around the music, someone's teacher wrote: Relax. Keep your fingers open and light. Someone's teacher wrote: Think of sunshine. You don't need to rush. Just follow the notes. Trust yourself. Good job!! And there, someone's teacher had drawn happy faces. And there, someone's teacher had pasted stars.

That’s—” “A violin from China,” she said without looking up. “Yes, I know.” “No, I mean, it’s all in pieces.” “Yes. So are we all.

Katrina. In my business, one does not care about bodies. One is only concerned with souls.

Being doubted hurts. But what hurts even worse is not being heard.

Still, should your civilization survive, it will eventually find the same equation. And that will be your death sentence. For in that equation, there will be no forever, no eternity. Nothing.

Who fluffs a pillow through the luck of a silenced phone?

Lindsey Stirling?” Shizuka gestured for Astrid’s laptop. Astrid peered at the screen. “Some sort of elf, fighting a very large dinosaur?” “Dragon, Astrid. Dragon.” “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And quite flexible. Oh … goodness … do you think you could have done that while you were playing?