Sweet Meaningful Quotes

I don’t remember Romeo being this pushy with Juliet!”.....He arched his eyebrows meaningfully. “And look at how that worked out for them. My way is better—less death, more orgasms.

We are the sugar in life’s cup of tea.

Poppy sighed, a peaceful smile gracing her face. Then Poppy closed her eyes, tilting her chin up for her final kiss, her hand squeezing mine. Lowering myself to her mouth, I pressed the softest, most meaningful kiss to her soft lips. Poppy breathed out through her nose, her sweet scent engulfing me … and she never breathed again. Reluctantly pulling back, I opened my eyes, now witnessing Poppy in eternal sleep. She was as beautiful now as ever she was in life.

Like most analyses, my conception of a meaningful activity is centered around significance and impact.

A meaningful life, at least to some extent, has to do with what one does and how one affects people.

Today, home from Trinidad, I thank James Arthur Baldwin for his legacy of fire. A fine rain of words when we had no tongues. He set fire to our eyes. Made a single look, gesture endure. Made a people meaningful and moral. Responsible finally for all our sweet and terrible lives.

Sixty to ninety minutes is a sweet spot. It’s enough time to do something meaningful, and it’s a reasonable amount of time to create in your schedule.

I want to take everything I've seen and thought and learned and reduce them and relate them and refine them until I have something of meaning, something of use. And I can't seem to do it.

Ren took his time perusing the menu and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. I didn’t even pick my menu up. He shot me meaningful glances while I sat silently, trying to avoid making eye contact. When she came back, she spoke to him briefly and gestured to me. I smiled, and in a syrupy sweet voice, said, “I’ll have whatever will get me out of here the fastest. Like a salad, maybe.” Ren smiled benignly back at me and rattled off what sounded like a banquet of choices, which the waitress was more than happy to take her time writing down. She kept touching him and laughing with him too. Which I found very, very annoying. When she left, he leaned back in his chair and sipped his water. I broke the silence first and hissed at him quietly, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you only have about two minutes left, so I hope you ordered the steak tartar, Tiger.” He grinned mischievously. “We’ll see, Kells. We’ll see.” “Fine. No skin off my nose. I can’t wait to see what happens when a white tiger runs through this nice establishment creating mayhem and havoc. Perhaps they will lose one of their stars because they put their patrons in danger. Maybe your new waitress girlfriend will run away screaming.” I smiled at the thought. Ren affected shock, “Why, Kelsey! Are you jealous?” I snorted in a very unladylike way. “No! Of course not.” He grinned. Nervously, I played with my cloth napkin. “I can’t believe you convinced Mr. Kadam to play along with you like this. It’s shocking, really.” He opened his napkin and winked at the waitress when she came to bring us a basket of rolls. When she left, I challenged, “Are you winking at her? Unbelievable!” He laughed quietly and pulled out a steaming roll, buttered it, and put it on my plate. “Eat, Kelsey,” he commanded. Then he sat forward. “Unless you are reconsidering seeing the view from my lap.” Angrily, I tore apart my roll and swallowed a few pieces before I even noticed how delicious they were-light and flaky with little flecks of orange rind mixed into the dough. I would have eaten another one, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

The scary thing about apathy is that it is never conscious. We don’t wake up every morning choosing to be apathetic – but we must consider a responsibility when we choose to believe that we can leave the world as it is, and meaningful changes are too radical to pursue.

Miss me?" she asks with her usual wryness, tossing her backpack on the floor and dropping down on the bed beside me like she comes over all the time. "I feel like a rebel just knowing you. Everyone keeps asking me if you really lit Brooklyn on fire." I arch a brow. "On fire?" Catherine pumps up a pillow beneath her head. "The actual event has gotten a bit exaggerated." Her lips twitch. "Maybe I had something to do with that." "Nice. Thanks." "No problem." "So I guess I'm pretty much done for at school." For the first time, it matters to me. If I'm to stay here and make a go of it, it wouldn't hurt to have a few friends. To not be a social outcast. Especially since it seems pretty important for Tamra's success at school, too. "Are you kidding? You're a hero." Her lips twist with a smile. "I think you've got a shot at homecoming queen next fall." I give a short laugh, and then her words sink. Next fall. Might I be here then? With Will? It's almost too sweet to believe. "So," Catherine beings, picking at the loose paper edging my spiral. "Rutledge was absent today." "Yeah?" I try for nonchalance. "Yeah." She stretches the word, her blue-green eyes cutting meaningfully into mine. "And his cousins were around, so he's not off somewhere with them. I wonder..." She cocks her head, her long, choppy bangs, sliding low across her forehead. "Wherever could he have been?" I shrug and pick at the flaking tip of my pencil. She continues, "I know where Xander thinks he was." My gaze swings back to her face. "Xander talked to you?" "I know, right? Can my days as a pariah be coming to an end?" "Where does he think Will was?" "With you, of course.

How much childhood is in that picture, and how everything is already settled there in the quiet, so indescribably lonely state of being a child, at the time when seated in an armchair one cannot touch the floor and with immense courage just keeps sitting there in that vast space which begins all around one and goes on and on. It is a very sweet and meaningful small picture. Thank you for letting me see it.

Even if you have been having sex for years with many people, you can still become a "secondary virgin." That occurs when you repent of previous sexual sins and then determine not to be intimate with anyone until you are married. It will require discipline to stay in the hallway of doors, but it still bring the sweet benefits of healthiness, greater self-respect, and above all, harmony with the King. He will honor you for doing what is right.

Poppy sighed, a peaceful smile gracing her face. Then Poppy closed her eyes, tilting her chin up for her final kiss, her hand squeezing mine. Lowering myself to her mouth, I pressed the softest, most meaningful kiss to her soft lips. Poppy breathed out through her nose, her sweet scent engulfing me … and she never breathed again. Reluctantly pulling back, I opened my eyes, now witnessing Poppy in eternal sleep. She was as beautiful now as ever she was in life.

Her dad never brought Phil and Lara back to the graveyard. He had buried some of her mother's things beneath a honeysuckle in the garden. A worn leather glove, a birthday card that she had written for each of them. The last photograph of the four of them together. There was a wisdom to what he had done; Lara saw it now. As the memory of her mother faded, the honeysuckle grew stronger. When Lara stood beneath it in summer, when it was in full bloom, her mother's sweetness seemed to live on in the scent of the flowers.

Leaving my empty goblet, I slide from the soft pile at his order. I can already feel the desire bursting from between my thighs as I fall to all fours and begin my crawl to where he has seated himself. “We will begin as before—you will be spanked over my knee—but this time there will be little pleasure in it for you, my captive. I intend to hurt you—to mark that pretty little behind—and make you unable to sit properly for some time.” I am back by his feet as he concludes and warily, I raise my eyes as he finishes the sentence. I know I am not hiding the terror in my face and yet still I am compelled to carry on—submitting myself to him in this way for our mutual need. He catches my hair in his left hand and pulls it into a rough ponytail, again drawing my head back. “When my hand is aching from tanning your backside, I will bind you to the bedpost and continue to thrash you with my strap. Do you understand?” He eyes me wildly and for a moment I am too afraid to even respond. I have to swallow hard again to find my voice. “Please, my Lofðungr,” I say shakily. “I do not know if I can bear such a punishment?” He never takes his eyes from me as he answers. “You can and you will, my sweeting,” he says. “You will submit to me in this way as a sign of your true desire to be mine.” I close my eyes at his words, understanding for the first time his real intention. He means not just to punish me, but to mark and possess me in some meaningful way. To make me his again in the way that our coupling had done before. As I open my eyes again and see him standing over me, there are tears but also a new acceptance. I nod my head as best I can whilst he is still holding my hair in his fist. “I will bear it,” I say, my voice breaking. He leans in toward me, his face just an inch from mine, those blue pools burning into me. “You will bear it,” he replies, his hot breath against my face, “and I will love you for it.

I don't understand," Olivia said. "How did Penny sewing and unsewing make for the Trojan War?" "Penelope was Odysseus's wife," Philippa explained. "He left her, and she sat at her loom, sewing all day, and unraveling all her work at night. For years." "Why on earth would someone do that?" Olivia wrinkled her nose, selecting a sweet from a nearby tray. "Years? Really?" "She was waiting for him to come home," Penelope said, meeting Michael's gaze. There was something meaningful there, and he thought she might be speaking of more than the Greek myth. Did she wait for him at night? She'd told him not to touch her... she'd pushed him away... but tonight, if he went to her, would she accept him? Would she follow the path of her namesake? "I hope you have more exciting things to do when you are waiting for Michael to come home, Penny," Olivia teased. Penelope smiled, but there was something in her gaze that he did not like, something akin to sadness. He blamed himself for it. Before him, she was happier. Before him, she smiled and laughed and played games with her sisters without reminder of her unfortunate fate. He stood to meet her as she approached the settee. "I would never leave my Penelope for years." He said, "I would be too afraid that someone would snatch her away." His mother-in-law sighed audibly from across the room as his new sisters laughed. He lifted one of Penelope's hands in his and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Penelope and Odysseus were never my favored mythic couple, anyway. I was always more partial to Persephone and Hades." Penelope smiled at him, and the room was suddenly much much warmer. "You think they were a happier couple?" she asked, wry. He met her little smile, enjoying himself as he lowered his voice. "I think six months of feast is better than twenty years of famine." She blushed, and he resisted the urge to kiss her there, in the drawing room, hang propriety and ladies' delicate sensibilities.

The village square teemed with life, swirling with vibrant colors and boisterous chatter. The entire village had gathered, celebrating the return of their ancestral spirit. Laughter and music filled the air, carrying with it an energy that made Kitsune smile. Paper lanterns of all colors floated lazily above, their delicate glow reflecting on the smiling faces below. Cherry blossoms caught in the playful breeze, their sweet, earthy scent settling over the scene. At the center, villagers danced with unbridled joy, the rhythm of the taiko drums and the melody of flutes guiding their steps. To the side, a large table groaned under the weight of a feast. Sticky rice balls, steamed dumplings, seaweed soup, sushi, and more filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. As she approached the table, she was greeted warmly by the villagers, who offered her food, their smiles genuine and welcoming. She filled a plate and sat at a table with Goro and Sota, overlooking the celebration. The event brought back a flood of memories of a similar celebration from her childhood—a time when everything was much simpler and she could easily answer the question who are you? The memory filled her heart with a sweet sadness, a reminder of what she lost and what had carved the road to where she was now. Her gaze fell on the dancing villagers, but she wasn’t watching them. Not really. Her attention was fully embedded in her heart ache, longing for the past, for the life that was so cruelly ripped away from her. “I think... I think I might know how to answer your question,” she finally said, her voice soft and steady, barely audible over the cacophony of festivity around them. “Oh?” Goro responded, his face alight with intrigue. “I would have to tell you my story.” Kitsune’s eyes reflected the somber clouds of her past. Goro swallowed his bite of food before nodding. “Let us retire to the dojo, and you can tell me.” They retreated from the bustling square, leaving behind the chaos of the celebration. The sounds of laughter and chatter and drums carried away by distance. The dojo, with its bamboo and sturdy jungle planks, was bathed in the soft luminescence of the moonlight, the surface of its wooden architecture glistening faintly under the glow. They stepped into the silent tranquility of the building, and Kitsune made her way to the center, the smooth, cool touch of the polished wooden floor beneath her providing a sense of peace. Assuming the lotus position, she calmed herself, ready to speak of memories she hadn’t confronted in a long time. Not in any meaningful way at least. Across from her, Goro settled, his gaze intense yet patient, encouraging her with a gentle smile like he somehow already understood her story was hard to verbalize.

The sentimentality of kitsch is a sign of its falseness. But it is also a sign of its extravagance. Unanchored to reality, sentimentality is naturally unbounded. Kitsch is a response to a failure or disintegration of cultural values. When the world no longer speaks meaningfully to us, we shout into the void and pretend the echoes come to us from on high. The grandiosity of kitsch is in proportion to the existential poverty out of which it arose. In this context, it is worth noting a limitation of that dictionary definition of kitsch. The sentimentality of kitsch can be “sweet,” but it can also be sour, malignant.

One hundred seems to be a magic number when it comes to giving. In a study of more than two thousand Australian adults in their mid-sixties, those who volunteered between one hundred and eight hundred hours per year were happier and more satisfied with their lives than those who volunteered fewer than one hundred or more than eight hundred hours annually. In another study, American adults who volunteered at least one hundred hours in 1998 were more likely to be alive in 2000. There were no benefits of volunteering more than one hundred hours. This is the 100-hour rule of volunteering. It appears to be the range where giving is maximally energizing and minimally draining. A hundred hours a year breaks down to just two hours a week. Research shows that if people start volunteering two hours a week, their happiness, satisfaction, and self-esteem go up a year later. Two hours a week in a fresh domain appears to be the sweet spot where people make a meaningful difference without being overwhelmed or sacrificing other priorities. It’s also the range in which volunteering is most likely to strike a healthy balance, offering benefits to the volunteer as well as the recipients.

If we conform our behavior to God’s ancient moral prescription, we are entitled to the sweet benefits of life. But if we defy its imperatives, then death is the inevitable consequence. AIDS is only one avenue by which sickness and death befall those who play Russian roulette with God’s eternal moral law.

With room to breathe and room to think, we can live a more meaningful life. And this type of 'room' is not necessarily physical space; rather, it is the absence of all that is extraneous alongside the sweet feeling of liberation that comes with realising that you have enough, and that you are enough, just as you are. To put it another way, that you can become spacious in yourself as your home becomes your place to be fearless, completely at ease and absolutely splendid in your imperfections and obsessions.

Analyze. Think, think, think. When you do you will recognize that our ordinary way of life is almost meaningless. Do not be discouraged. It would be very foolish to give up now. On those occasions when you feel most hopeless, you must make a powerful effort. We are so accustomed to faulty states of mind that it is difficult to change with just a little practice. Just a drop of something sweet cannot change a taste that is powerfully bitter. We must persist in the face of failure. In difficult personal circumstances the best recourse is to try to remain as honest and sincere as possible. Otherwise, by responding harshly or selfishly, you simply make matters worse. This is especially apparent in painful family situations. You should realize that difficult present circumstances are entirely due to your own past undisciplined actions, so when you experience a difficult period, do your best to avoid behavior that will add to your burden later on. It is important to diminish undisciplined states of mind, but it is even more important to meet adversity with a positive attitude. Keep this in mind: By greeting trouble with optimism and hope, you are undermining worse troubles down the line. Beyond that, imagine that you are easing the burden of everyone suffering problems of that kind. This practice--imagining that by accepting your pain you are using up the negative karma of everyone destined to feel such pain--is very helpful.

I have some bad news, my sweet girl. One—you can’t change people. If he doesn’t change himself, you’re flat out of luck. And two—you want what you want. Need what you need.” “I keep looking for a compromise…” “Shelby, there are many compromises in relationships. You learn to live with men’s underwear on the floor just shy of the hamper, toothpaste spit on the mirror, and you learn to keep your mouth shut while he drives around in circles for hours because he won’t ask for directions. But the things you feel in the marrow of your bones, the deep and meaningful desires that will make your life complete—there’s no compromise in it.” “No?” Muriel shook her head. “You can force yourself to go along. You might even find a way to force him to go along. But there’s bitterness in it. It’s not worth it.” “I

We outsource human interaction with likes and pokes on facebook. We forego meaningful person to person conversation with instant messaging and texts. We trade harsh bitter truths for sweet palatable lies. We exchange feeling for a kind of synthetic numbness, a makeshift apathy. We’re suffering from a self-induced de-evolution of humanity.

Life is its own justification. Life doesn’t need heroic acts to be meaningful.

the conclusion is even stronger—it’s not merely that there exist some people who are both happy and have lives with meaning. It’s that there is a correlation: happy people are more likely to say that their lives are meaningful, and people who say that their lives are meaningful are more likely to say that they’re happy.

Money does make you happy; it’s the trying to make money that makes you sad. The trick is to get money in the course of other, meaningful, pursuits

chosen suffering can generate and enhance pleasure, and that it is an essential part of meaningful activities and a meaningful life. And it’s often the right thing to do. I’ll repeat the quote from Zadie Smith: “It hurts just as much as it is worth.” Sometimes pain is a proper acknowledgment of value.

So what am I going to argue? This book defends three related ideas. First, certain types of chosen suffering—including those that involve pain, fear, and sadness—can be sources of pleasure. Second, a life well lived is more than a life of pleasure; it involves, among other things, moral goodness and meaningful pursuits. And third, some forms of suffering, involving struggle and difficulty, are essential parts of achieving these higher goals, and for living a complete and fulfilling life.

The most meaningful things in life take time to manifest. When the process seems so slow, feeling frustrated and bitter will not speed it up, but falling in love with it has sweet ways of proving that time flies so fast.

WE’VE BEEN TALKING about meaningful pursuits, but there are meaningful experiences as well. Here the bar is dropped somewhat. These can be more passive and don’t necessarily involve achieving a goal. What seems to be key here is that they will change you in some way.

It turned out that the most meaningful events tended to be on the extremes—those that were very pleasant or very painful. These are the ones that matter, that leave a mark.

Rebecca Solnit, in her book A Paradise Built in Hell, chronicles how groups of people respond to disasters, arguing that they are far kinder to one another than you would expect if you read Hobbes, who maintained that, stripped of external constraints, people would descend into savagery. Actually, Solnit says, you find that “the prevalent human nature in disaster is resilient, resourceful, generous, empathic, and brave.” For her, disaster provides an opportunity. People don’t just rise to the occasion; they do so with joy. This reveals “an ordinarily unmet yearning for community, purposefulness, and meaningful work that disaster often provides.

Emily Esfahani Smith talks about the American Freshman Survey, which found that in the late 1960s, 86 percent of respondents claimed that “developing a meaningful life philosophy” was “essential” or “very important,” while in the 2000s, the proportion dropped to 40 percent. She is disappointed in this; she sees it as a bad sign.

Some people engage in meaningful pursuits, and this, I argue, makes their lives better. But people don’t have to think about meaning for this to work. People who mountain-climb, for instance, might have an entirely mistaken theory of what climbing does for them, just as someone who exercises might have an entirely wrong theory of the benefits of exercise.

How much is enough? Less than enough is depriving. More than enough is indulging. Enough is the sweet spot in the middle, the place where intentonality intersects with contentment, where lust doesn't get in the way of creating something meaningful. Sure, you could pursue more. But "could" is not a reason to do anything. Enough is enough when you decide it's enough.

Dear Daughter, In this world, you are the main actor in the life you have. Do not act as an extra. You need to take the lead. Live your life in a meaningful way.

Dear Daughter, Although it is desirable to lead an honest life, not everyone is honest. Although it is commendable to believe in justice, not everyone is just. Although it is noble to care about others, not everyone does. Yours is not to do what others do, but to ensure that whatever you do is truthful, helpful, and meaningful.

Dear Daughter, Do what is meaningful in life because that is what gives meaning to the world.

Here is my own attempt to integrate the ideas so far, looking first at meaningful activities. A meaningful activity is oriented toward a goal, one that, if accomplished, would have an impact on the world—and this usually means that it has an impact on other people. This activity extends across a significant portion of one’s life and has some structure—it’s the sort of thing that one can tell a story about. It often connects to religion and spirituality and often connects to flow (leading to the experience of self-loss) and often brings you into close contact with other people and is often seen as morally virtuous—but none of these additional features are essential.

There is no contradiction here. Money does make you happy; it’s the trying to make money that makes you sad. The trick is to get money in the course of other, meaningful, pursuits—or, if you can manage it, to be born into wealth.)

What Singer calls positive-constructive daydreaming is the sweet spot, where we find benefits to daydreaming. Neither fantastical escape nor catastrophic thinking, this playful, artful approach engages your imagination to explore your possibilities for a better future, however distant or near. This kind of daydreaming leads to making plans and solving problems in a way that complements Lopez’s research on setting your sights on a meaningful goal or two. A component of hope is that you begin to envision actions that will lead to your ultimate aim.

It’s not just me. When you ask people, “How often, if at all, do you think about the meaning and purpose of life?” or “In the bigger picture of your life, how personally significant and meaningful to you is what you are doing at the moment?,” parents—both mothers and fathers—say that their lives have more meaning than those of non-parents.

For with her, there isn’t eternal support, kind words, sweet notes, meaningful kisses, gentle reminders, someone to think about during chick flicks, a well of intensely personal advice, a loving ear or a willing heart. She will try to convince you that by jumping in your ride and heading out tonight riding solo is YOLO, but know that the ice cream, Ambien, and Netflix cocktails can’t drown the innate desire of a human to care about and be cared about on a plane that is higher than platonic friendship. Ah yes, what she offers pales in comparison to what she never can give

Speak sooner to sweet spot of shared interest to cultivate a meaningful connection, first step to creating something greater together. Share the story in which others see a role they want to play so they’ll re- share it to make it “our” story Whoever most vividly characterizes a situation usually determines how others see it, talk about it, and make decisions about it

She had spent a very long night thinking about her husband. He had so many faces; a fierce and dangerous expression for an enemy, a threat. A soft and tender expression when he turned his eyes to her. A sweet pride when he held their children. A joyful gleam when he was with his friends. She remembered when he had first talked her into those stolen kisses, deep and meaningful and passionate. It had been hard to resist him, his allure was so penetrating. And how fortuitous, because that same desire had given her the children—she just couldn’t say no to Jack. His love was blinding, it was so bold. Finally,

Trying to consume sugar in moderation, however it’s defined, in such a world is likely to be no more successful for some of us than trying to smoke cigarettes in moderation—just a few cigarettes a day, rather than a pack. Whether or not we can avoid any meaningful chronic effects by doing so, we may not be capable of managing our habits, or managing our habits might become the dominant theme in our lives (just as rationing sweets for our children can seem to be a dominant theme in parenting). Some of us certainly find it easier to consume no sugar than to consume a little—no dessert at all, rather than a spoonful or two before pushing the plate to the side. If sugar consumption may be a slippery slope, then advocating moderation is not a meaningful concept.

The problem with my casual friend was that we didn't have any real relationship. He's a sweet guy and a true lover of Jesus, but we were never close enough to speak meaningfully into each other's lives. He hadn't gotten to know Constantino and had never spent time with us to see the fruit borne of our relationship. So when he wrote me with his Scripture-spattered disapproval, my heart had little generosity to listen. Furthermore, his message consisted of nothing more than the same tired clobber passages from the Bible with which I was all too well acquainted. I had wrestled with the issue of homosexuality for twenty years — through agonizing therapy, scholarly books, thoughtful discussion, Bible study, and endless prayer. I doubt he had been so diligent about the issue. So when he asserted my wrongness with so much confidence, it felt to me like an insolent kindergartner criticizing a PhD's solution to a calculus problem.

On those occasions when you feel most hopeless, you must make a powerful effort. We are so accustomed to faulty states of mind that it is difficult to change with just a little practice. Just a drop of something sweet cannot change a taste that is powerfully bitter. We must persist in the face of failure.

talks before the Kumāras were very laudable because of so many qualifications. A speech should be composed of selected words, very sweet to hear, and appropriate to the situation. Such speech is called meaningful.