Wonderstruck Quotes

Ben wished the world was organized by the Dewey decimal system. That way you'd be able to find whatever you were looking for.

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home I'll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you too.

Don't try to understand me, just be grateful that you felt the warmth of Zaphod Beeblebrox's aura on your wonderstruck face.

Maybe, thought Ben, we are all cabinets of wonders.

He wished he was with his mom in her library, where everything was safe and numbered and organized by the Dewey decimal system. Ben wished the world was organized by the Dewey decimal system. That way you'd be able to find whatever you were looking for, like the meaning of your dream, or your dad.

Ben wished the world was organized by the Dewey decimal system. That way you'd be able to find whatever you were looking for, like the meaning of your dream, or your dad.

We are all cabinets of wonders.

Ben remembered reading about curators in "Wonderstruck", and thought about what id meant to curate your own life, as his dad had done here. What would it be like to pick and choose the objects and stories that would go in your own cabinet? How would Ben curate his own life? And then, thinking about his museum box, and his house, and his books, and the secret room, he realized he'd already begun doing it. Maybe, thought Ben, we are all cabinets of wonders.

What would it be like to pick and choose the objects and stories that would go into your own cabinet?

His elk?” said Bran, wonderstruck. “His elk?” said Meera, startled. “His ravens?” said Jojen. “Hodor?” said Hodor.

El mundo estaba lleno de maravillas

He said.” Jojen frowned. “This . . . Coldhands?” “That wasn’t his true name,” said Gilly, rocking. “We only called him that, Sam and me. His hands were cold as ice, but he saved us from the dead men, him and his ravens, and he brought us here on his elk.” “His elk?” said Bran, wonderstruck. “His elk?” said Meera, startled. “His ravens?” said Jojen. “Hodor?” said Hodor. “Was he green?” Bran wanted to know. “Did he have antlers?” The fat man was confused. “The elk?” “Coldhands,” said Bran impatiently. “The green men ride on elks, Old Nan used to say. Sometimes they have antlers too.

A veces, el tiempo cambia las cosas como por arte de magia.

Ben had never seen his mother cry before, and it startled him, so he didn't ask again. Right afterward she'd put on her favorite record and played a mysterious song called "Space Oddity," about an astronaut named Major Tom who gets lost in space. She used to listen to the song over and over again. With her eyes closed, she'd place the palm of her hand against the fabric of the speaker, so she could feel it vibrate against her skin.

His hands were cold as ice, but he saved us from the dead men, him and his ravens, and he brought us here on his elk.” “His elk?” said Bran, wonderstruck. “His elk?” said Meera, startled. “His ravens?” said Jojen. “Hodor?” said Hodor.

Wide awake to the presence of God, I realized I had been so focused on asking why a good God allowed bad things to happen that I was missing out on the nearness of God all along. In becoming preoccupied with the why, I was missing the who.

¿Sabes qué, Tortuguita? -le dijo antes de salir de casa hacia el colegio-. De vez en cuando hay que sacar la cabeza de la concha... Habla, sé valiente.

God is not merely at your fingertips but within your grasp. Live each day like a child digging through a treasure chest, rifling for the next discovery. Open your arms and your eyes to the God who stands in plain sight and works miracles in your midst. Look for him in your workdays and weekends, in your meeting-filled Mondays and your lazy Saturdays. Search for him in the snowy sunsets and Sabbaths, seasons of Lent and sitting at your table. Pray for—and expect—wonder. For when you search for God, you will discover him.

The shelves covered all four walls of the square room, broken in three places by tall, narrow windows with stained-glass inserts above and upholstered seats below, liberally adorned with loose cushions – the sort of window seats that every book lover dreams of, visualises, yearns for… I stepped forward into the room, wonder-struck, inhaling the rich smell of oiled leather bindings and ancient paper and polished wood.

There I was again tonight Forcing laughter, faking smiles Same old tired lonely place Walls of insincerity, Shifting eyes and vacancy Vanished when I saw your text All I can say is it was enchanting to meet you The playful conversation starts Counter all your quick remarks Like passing notes in secrecy And it was enchanting to meet you All I can say is I was enchanted to meet you This night is sparkling, don't you let it go I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home I'll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you The lingering question kept me up 2 AM, who do you love? I wonder 'til I'm wide awake And now I'm pacing back and forth Wishing you were at my door I'd open up and you would say, "Hey, It was enchanting to meet you, All I know is I was enchanted to meet you.

I fell in love with his childlike quirks, in the perfect weather, on October first. I fell in love when he smiled his beautiful smile, on the drive through the moonlight. I fell in love when his eyes shined, putting to shame the diamond sky. I was wonderstruck, blushing all the way home. I fell in love in a way, that was sweeter than rom-com.

if God spoke creation into existence, should we be surprised when creation speaks back to us about God?

when journeying with God some of the best parts of any pilgrimage are the detours.

And, when I saw him thus, young, ardent and believing, bringing me, in some wise, from the depths of unwearied nature, quite fresh news of life and trusting and wonderstruck, as though he had been the first of his race that came to inaugurate the earth and as though we were still in the first days of the world's existence, I envied the gladness of his certainty, compared it with the destiny of man, still plunging on every side into darkness, and said to myself that the dog who meets with a good master is the happier of the two.

Does the sacred quest end with cultivating our own gardens and dwelling within our private and incommunicable experiences? Because we human beings are verbal and communal animals, we cannot remain wonder-struck and dumb. We need to say something. We are a species given to storytelling and philosophizing to explain our world. Ergo, it is pure folly to suppose we can avoid speaking about the ultimate context and meaning of our existence. We cannot simply be content with the private experience of elementary emotions and the great encompassing mystery. Our feelings demand expression. How are we to understand this perennial need to speak to G-d and about G-d even when what we say involves contradictions, paradoxes, and sacred nonsense? To communicate is to come back into the community. The hero must return from the inner journey to the common life of dialogue and engagement.

Her touch was so soft it made him ache. He closed his eyes as his control slipped; tilting his head, he pressed a fervent kiss into her palm. He heard her breathe his name, then her delicate hand turned his face forward again; without warning, she moved forward onto her knees and pressed an urgent but virginal kiss to his lips. His heart slammed in his chest. Wonderstruck by her unexpected move, he sat in trembling stillness, chaining himself back, only returning her kiss gently as his pulse pounded. God knew, he barely dared breathe for fear of scaring her away. His restraint emboldened her. She moved closer, kissing him again, and again. Her lips stroking his were supple, satin, sweet. He shuddered with the need to unleash his passion, but still, he held himself back, just as she paused with the air of a woman stopping herself with great effort. "I'm sorry." Her breathless whisper inflamed his senses as she drew back a small space. "You looked like you--- needed that." "I did. I do." He nodded and drew her back to him.

Unforgiveness feels like a prison built by the hands of a criminal where we end up incarcerated. Whether robbed, violated, or betrayed, we find ourselves trapped by the bondage of bitterness, the chains of cynicism, and the shackles of sin. With enough time, we can convince ourselves the prisons of our past were built by someone else, but unforgiveness is a cage we construct ourselves. If we choose to stop focusing on our inward pain and instead scan the perimeter, we discover the door to freedom hangs wide open thanks to Christ. The choice is ours.

The sprouting of a green and flourishing tree from the earth is as wonderful an event as the sudden emergence of a camel from the earth and its starting to walk on its surface. People are wonder-struck by the second type of incident, though the more wonderful incidents are always happening on the earth without their learning any lesson from it. Almighty God wants man to notice the extraordinary but hidden aspects of ordinary events. In the events happening in the chain of cause and effect, he should be able to observe the direct role of God. Those who display this high degree of insight are the ones who will be treated as having faith in God and the ones who will be blessed with the eternal grace of God.

Because we human beings are verbal and communal animals, we cannot remain wonder-struck and dumb. We need to say something. We are a species given to storytelling and philosophizing to explain our world. Ergo, it is pure folly to suppose we can avoid speaking about the ultimate context and meaning of our existence. We cannot simply be content with the private experience of elementary emotions and the great encompassing mystery. Our feelings demand expression. How are we to understand this perennial need to speak to G-d and about G-d even when what we say involves contradictions, paradoxes, and sacred nonsense? To communicate is to come back into the community. The hero must return from the inner journey to the common life of dialogue and engagement. PRAYERS TO AN ABSENT G-D ON PRAYER You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.

I sighed. “It’s not the same.” We had come to a stop in the wide front passage, with the Great Hall behind us, and my worst fears were confirmed as Geoff swung open the door to reveal floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves filled with books of every possible size and shape and age. The shelves covered all four walls of the square room, broken in three places by tall, narrow windows with stained-glass inserts above and upholstered seats below, liberally adorned with loose cushions—the sort of window seats that every book lover dreams of, visualizes, yearns for… I stepped forward into the room, wonder-struck, inhaling the rich smell of oiled leather bindings and ancient paper and polished wood.

His hands were cold as ice, but he saved us from the dead men, him and his ravens, and he brought us here on his elk.” “His elk?” said Bran, wonderstruck. “His elk?” said Meera, startled. “His ravens?” said Jojen. “Hodor?” said Hodor.

Birds,” Marthe said, wonderstruck at the sight of the flapping cards. Marthe was right, as usual. How had I not seen the similarity before?

Shiva raised both his arms in an elegant circular movement to the sides to bring them in line with his shoulder. His right hand was holding an imaginary dumru, a small, handheld percussion instrument. His left hand was open with its palm facing upward, almost like it was receiving some divine energy. He held this pose for some time; his glowing face indicated that Shiva was withdrawing into his inner world. His right hand then moved effortlessly forward, almost as if it had a mind of its own. Its palm was now open and facing the audience. Somehow, the posture seemed to convey a feeling of protectiveness to a very surprised Sati. Almost languidly, his left arm glided at shoulder height and came to rest with the palm facing downwards and pointing at the left foot. Shiva held this pose for some time. And then began the dance. Sati stared in wonder at Shiva. He was performing the same steps as her. Yet it looked like a completely different dance. His lyrical hand movements graced the mystical motion of his body. How could a body this muscular also be so flexible? The Guruji tried helplessly to get his dhol to give Shiva the beats. But clearly that wasn’t necessary. As it was Shiva’s feet which were leading the beat for the dhol! The dance conveyed the various emotions of a woman. In the beginning it conveyed her feelings of joy and lust as she cavorted with her husband. The next emotion was anger and pain at the treacherous killing of her mate. Despite his rough masculine body, Shiva managed to convey the tender yet strong emotions of a grieving woman. Shiva’s eyes were open. But the audience realised that he was oblivious to them. Shiva was in his own world. He did not dance for the audience. He did not dance for appreciation. He did not dance for the music. He danced only for himself. In fact, it almost seemed like his dance was guided by a celestial force. Sati realised that Shiva was right. He had opened himself and the dance had come to him. After what seemed like an eternity the dance came to an end, with Shiva’s eyes firmly shut. He held the final pose for a long time as the glow slowly left him. It was almost as if he was returning to this world. Shiva gradually opened his eyes to find Sati, Krittika and the Guruji gaping at him wonder-struck.

He catches me staring at him, wonderstruck. I know I’ve been caught, but I can’t look away. A tiny crooked smile forms on his lips. 'What?' 'I’ve never met anyone so enchanting to me before,' I want to say. 'You’re perfection.' I want to say that, I really do. But I don’t. Instead, I chicken out and simply say, 'Nothing.

Marry me," he said. Her eyes widened. "What?" She nearly fell off the horse. "Marry me, Kate," he repeated. He swallowed hard. "I need you in my life. Please. Say you'll be my duchess." "Rohan..." He took a step closer. "I know I said some boorish, stupid things that day in the music room. You were right. I was scared. I didn't know how it could be between us, but I see it now. And that night on your father's ship, I acted like a brute, telling you to prove your love by sleeping with me. It was wrong." She shook her head. "You needed me." "I did. I still do. I always will. I don't know what I'll do if you say no." He lowered his head. "I know you've reason to be wary. That I can be a thoroughgoing bastard sometimes. I've had too many women in the past, but, God, I don't want that anymore. And it is true, I, er, kill people now and then, but just to safeguard England. And if you can live with that---" He shook his head with a tempestuous fire in his eyes. "On my word, I will be true to you, and I will love you until the end of time." Kate had lost the power of speech. Indeed, she could barely breathe. Tears rushed into her eyes. Lord Byron himself could not have uttered more romantic sentiments. "There can be no other for me, Kate, but you." The Beast walked over and stared hard into the depths of her eyes; sitting on the pony's back, she was on eye level with him for once, and the whole tumult of his soul was there in his eyes, discovering love for the first time, setting his heart free at last. "You... make me feel things I've never experienced before. You've been so patient, and I've been such a fool." "No, you haven't," she breathed, wonder-struck by him. Was this just a dream? "Stay with me always," he implored her in a confidential whisper. "And love me... as I love you." "You---love me?" she echoed, her chin trembling in the most embarrassing fashion. "With all my heart," he vowed in a soft but fierce tone, looking as deeply moved as she. He touched her hair, tucking a windblown lock of it behind her ear. "Kate, you and I were meant to be together. I'm still superstitious enough to know when I have found my destiny. It's you. You're the one who broke the curse.