Yu No Quotes

You’re like a rose in a graveyard. I wonder what you could have turned into without the war

She was a non-active member of the Order of the Phoenix and did not fight.

I always have to choose, and I never get to choose you. I'm tired of not getting to choose you

I have warned you. If something happens to you, I will personally raze the entire Order. That isn't a threat. That is a promise. Consider your survival as much a necessity to the survival of the Resistance as Potter's. If you die, I will kill every last one of them.

If he's a monster, then I'm his creator. What did you think was the source of all his rage?

I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything I did to you,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “I love you. You left, and I’d never told you.

If I could be half the person my dog is, I'd be twice the human I am.

He's waiting for yu, young queen.' Shocked, I stared at Seoras. 'Heath?' The Warrior's look was wise and understanding - his voice gentle. 'Aye, yur Heath probably does await you somewhere in the future, but it is of your Guardian I speak.

Be careful. Don't die. Only because you asked.

You asked how large my sorrow is. And I answered, like a river in spring flowing east.

Most people I know live their lives moving in a constant forward direction, the whole time looking backward.

Malfoy always comes for me.

I’m going to take care of you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. You don’t have to be lonely, because you’re mine.

Maybe we spend most of our decades being someone else, avoiding ourselves, maybe a man is only himself, his true self, for a few days in his entire life.

You are not replaceable,” he said. His hands were shaking as he gripped her. “You are not required to make your death convenient. You are allowed to be important to people. The reason I took that fucking Vow was to keep you alive. To keep you safe." - Chapter 52: Flashback 27

Tea tempers the spirits and harmonizes the mind, dispels lassitude and relieves fatigue, awakens thought and prevents drowsiness, lightens or refreshes the body, and clears the perceptive faculties.

There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

But as she tried to unravel him, he grew increasingly tragic and terrifyingly human

The clouds above us join and separate, The breeze in the courtyard leaves and returns. Life is like that, so why not relax? Who can stop us from celebrating?

At some point in your life, this statement will be true: tomorrow you will lose everything forever.

Life is, to some extent, an extended dialogue with your future self about how exactly you are going to let yourself down over the coming years.

You’re the one who made the bargain with Apollymis that I have to live with. Personally, it irks the shit out of me to be traded like some Yu-Gi-Oh! card you got tired of having around the house. (Kat)

I promised--every time you asked, I promised I was yours always. There aren't any exemptions or expiration dates on always.

You’re here, supposedly, in a new land full of opportunity, but somehow have gotten trapped in a pretend version of the old country.

You want to tell a story? Grow a heart. Grow two. Now, with the second heart, smash the first one into bits.

He had such long fingers. In another life, he could have been a healer or a musician. He would have had the perfect hands for it.

If literature truly possesses a mysterious power, I think perhaps it is precisely this: that one can read a book by a writer of a different time, a different country, a different race, a different language, and a different culture and there encounter a sensation that is one's very own.

Sometimes when I'm brushing my teeth, I'll look at the mirror and I swear my reflection seems kind of disappointed. I realized a couple of years ago that not only am I not super-skilled at anything, I'm not even particularly good at being myself.

...unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have ever lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience. Raw data will be compiled, will be translated into a more comprehensible language. The individual events of your life will be transmuted into another substance called memory and in the mechanism something will be lost and you will never be able to reverse it, you will never again have the original moment back in its uncategorized, preprocessed state. It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

She says that telling a love story is something one person does. Being in love takes both of them. Putting her on a pedestal is just a different way of being alone.

It's time to duel!

It was always the last thing she said to him. The moment before he apparated away, as he stood in his Death Eater robes, she’d say it rather than goodbye. She’d catch his chin in her hand and stare up into his eyes. “Be careful. Don’t die.

The rules are simple: the first one to lose dies.

Your life is given to you by your parents. If you don't want to live, you have to ask them first.

he’d set fire to the world around him but never let a flame touch her

Everyone has a time machine. Everyone *is* a time machine. It's just that most people's time machines are broken. The strangest and hardest kind of time travel is the unaided kind. People get stuck, people get looped. People get trapped. But we are all time machines.

One sided-love always goes with the urge of possessing.

The widest gulf in the world is the distance between getting by, and not getting by.

Perhaps someday when I have time, I can make a list for you of all the things that apologies can't fix,

His passion hadn't been explosive. it was a smoldering fire; the kind that grew secretly, like a ground fire deep in the earth, spreading and waiting before rising up, destroying the world above. She suspected he burned for things more deeply than even he was aware of.

He tasted like ice and firewhisky and sin.

Now that I am awake I shall reveal my true form.. to the world!!" Hahahaha! Hey You Morons! I'm Just Kidding! -Yusuke YuYu Hakusho

I don't miss him anymore. Most of the time, anyway. I want to. I wish I could but unfortunately, it's true: time does heal. It will do so whether you like it or not, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. If you're not careful, time will take away everything that ever hurt you, everything you have lost, and replace it with knowledge. Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience... It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

Marie's drunk texts: Marie: Horse, muss yu Marie: Why dont anser? Marie: Horse like yur name. Horsey. I'd like to rid u horsey, LOL. You sleeping? Or busy with someone? Marie: I know yur there. I bet you got a new gurl alredy. Screw you. Marie: Screw you and your slut. I hate you. Take yur club and shove it up yur ass I wudn't be yoor old lady for ten milion dollrs.

You can only go to places that you will let yourself go.

She had never felt so unmotivated. Existing seemed like such an unfair demand.

When I closed my eyes, the overview of the entire universe would get drawn inside my head. Han Su-Yeong wrote the story. Yu Jung-Hyeok lived that story. And, I read that very story. And that’s how this world barely managed to reach its completion.

Your move!

Who gets to be an American? What does an American look like?

If you die, I will kill every last one of them.

Unofficially, we understood. There was a ceiling. Always had been, always would be. Even for him. Even for our hero, there were limits to the dream of assimilation, to how far any of you could make your way into the world of Black and White.

As, everyone knows, water hates poor people. Given the opportunity, water will always find a way to make poor people miserable, typically at the worst time possible.

You’re alright? Are you alright? Has anything happened to you?” He’d run his hands over her to check as he asked

He pressed his lips against her forehead. “You’re better than anyone,” he said quietly, the words brushing against her skin. “This world doesn’t deserve you at all.

It’s better to live an ordinary life. If you go on striving for this and that, you’ll end up paying with your life.

All he ever knew of her was who he saw every day. All I am is who I am every day. All anyone is to anyone is a series of days.

Someday I am going to love him in a moment that isn't stolen, she promised herself. -Chapter 35

For a writer, life is always too short to write. I will just try my best during what remains of my life.

Enjoy the elastic present, which can accommodate as little or as much as you want to put in there. Stretch it out, live inside of it.

Failure is easy to measure. Failure is an event.Harder to measure is insignificance. A nonevent. Insignificance creeps, it dawns, it gives you hope, then delusion, then one day, when you’re not looking, it’s there, at your front door, on your desk, in the mirror, or not, not any of that, it’s the lack of all that. One day, when you are looking, it’s not looking, no one is. You lie in your bed and realize that if you don’t get out of bed and into the world today, it is very likely no one will even notice.

The effect of tea is cooling and as a beverage it is most suitable. It is especially fitting for persons of self-restraint and inner worth.

There was a part of her that felt she might somehow doom them if she said it. If there were important things left unspoken, then perhaps tomorrow would come.

Their chests were pressed against each other, and she wasn't sure if she was feeling her heartbeat or his. Perhaps they had the same tempo.

What is this called, what I am doing, to myself, to my life, this wallowing, this pondering, this rolling over and over in the same places of my memory, wearing them thin, wearing them out? Why don't I ever learn? Why don't I ever do anything different?

You want to tell a story? Grow a heart. Grow two. Now, with the second heart, smash the first one into bits. Gross, right? A bloody pulpy liquid mess. Look at it, try to make sense of it. Realize you can't. Because there is no sense. Ask your computer to print out a list of every lie you have ever told. Ask yourself how much of the universe you have ever really seen. Look in the mirror. Are you sure you're you? Are you sure you didn't slip out of yourself in the middle of the night, and someone else slipped into you, without you or you or any of you even noticing?

This is what you have to ask yourself: Do you want to be good, or just seem good? Do you want to be good to yourself and others? Do you care about other people, always, sometimes, never? Or only when convenient? What kind of person do you want to be?

This, then, is my choice: I can allow the events of my life to happen to me. Or I can take those very same actions and make them my own. I can live in my own present, risk failure, be assured of failure.

I hate everything about her except for the fact that I love everything about her.

A wish assumes a person knows what’s best for them. Good luck and happiness leaves it to Fate to lead you to the right place.

This is it. The root of it all. The real history of yellow people in America. Two hundred years of being perpetual foreigners.

Pragmatism has stolen away any luster of heroism from her.

How do you convince someone to change, to stop being afraid of himself? How do you convince yourself not to be so scared all the time?

You came here, your parents and their parents and their parents, and you always seem to have just arrived and yet never seem to have actually arrived.

No matter how lucky a person is, the moment he decides he wants to die, there's nothing that will keep him alive.

Draco talked to Aurore more than he talked to anyone, even Hermione. He would monologue to her about anything, about the trees, and the furniture, all the shops where he’d bought books for Hermione, about what the weather might be, and what all the colours and hues of the analytic spells meant. Aurore would listen to him intently and fret when he got distracted or fell silent for too long.

I am transcribing a book that I have, in a sense, not yet written, and in another sense, have always written, and in another sense, am currently writing, and in another sense, am always writing, and in another sense, will never write.

There are some militarists who say: ‘We are not interested in politics but only in the profession of arms.’ It is vital that these simple-minded militarists be made to realize the relationship that exists between politics and military affairs. Military action is a method used to attain a political goal. While military affairs and political affairs are not identical, it is impossible to isolate one from the other.” - Mao Zedong, Yu Chi Chan

You haven’t experienced awkwardness until you’ve seen a three-million-dollar piece of software cry.

You can just sit in here, impervious and invisible. So invisible you might even forget yourself.

If you don't believe it, go down to your local karaoke bar on a busy night. Wait until the third hour, when the drunk frat boys and gastropub waitresses with headshots are all done with Backstreet Boys and Alicia Keys and locate the slightly older Asian businessman standing patiently in line for his turn, his face warmly rouged on Crown or Japanese lager, and when he steps up and starts slaying "Country Roads," try not to laugh, or wink knowingly or clap a little too hard, because by the time he gets to "West Virginia, mountain mama," you're going to be singing along, and by the time he's done, you might understand why a seventy-seven-year-old guy from a tiny island in the Taiwan Strait who's been in a foreign country for two-thirds of his life can nail a song, note perfect, about wanting to go home.

How many times have I failed before? How many times have I stood here like this, in front of my own image, in front of my own person, trying to convince him not to be scared, to go on, to get out of this rut? How many times before I finally convince myself, how many private, erasable deaths will I need to die, how may self-murders is it going to take, how many times will I have to destroy myself before I learn, before I understand?

As the black night descended from the heavens, I knew that in the blink of an eye I would witness the death of the sunset. I saw the exposed and firm chest of the vast earth; its pose was one of calling, of beckoning. And just as a mother beckons her children, so the earth beckoned the coming of night.

Expecto Patronum!” She poured every drop of emotion she had into the spell. White light exploded from her wand, growing larger and larger until her Patronus fully corporalized. Not her otter. Not a blur. Hermione stared up as a full-sized Antipodean Opaleye emerged from her wand. It filled the sky. It threw back its head, roaring and unfurling enormous wings. It opened its mouth, and white flames poured from it.

This is what I say: I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, you don't have to worry, you can't change the past. The bad news is, you don't have to worry, no matter how hard you try, you can't change the past. The universe just doesn't put up with that. We aren't important enough. No one is. Even in our own lives. We're not strong enough, willful enough, skilled enough in chronodiegetic manipulation to be able to just accidentally change the entire course of anything, even ourselves.

Time isn't an orderly stream. Time isn't a placid lake recording each of our ripples. Time is viscous. Time is a massive flow. It is a self-healing substance, which is to say, almost everything will be lost. We're too slight, to inconsequntial, despite all of our thrashing and swimming and waving our arms about. Time is an ocean of inertia, drowning out the small vibrations, absorbing the slosh and churn, the foam and wash, and we're up here, flapping and slapping and just generally spazzing out, and sure, there's a little splashing on the surface, but that doesn't even register in the depths, in the powerful undercurrents miles below us, taking us wherever they are taking us.

You say people's struggles are a game! That's totally wrong! Facing yourself no matter how tough things get... and keeping up the fight... that's what games are really about! You bet your chip of life as if it meant nothing! You lost to yourself! When you realized you were going to lose, you didn't have the courage to keep living! Listen... Real courage is protecting that chip you have in your hands... no matter what!" -Anzu to Kaiba

He is asking to be treated like an American. A real american. Cuz honestly, when you think about American, what color do you see? white? black? We (the Chinese) have been here 200 years....the German, the Dutch, the Italian, they came here in the turn of century; they are Americans. Why doesn't this face ("yellow") register as American? Is it because we make the story too complicated?

The truth is, she's a weirdo. Just like you were. Are. A glorious, perfectly weird weirdo. Like all kids before they forget how to be exactly how weird they really are. Into whatever they're into, pure. Before knowing. Before they learn from others how to act. Before they learn they are Asian, or Black, or Brown, or White. Before they learn that all the things they are and about all the things they will never be.

But at the same time, I’m guilty, too. Guilty of playing this role. Letting it define me. Internalizing the role so completely that I’ve lost track of where reality starts and the performance begins. And letting that define how I see other people. I’m as guilty of it as anyone. Fetishizing Black people and their coolness. Romanticizing White women. Wishing I were a White man. Putting myself into this category.

When he moved, she could tell that he’d stopped breathing. His fingers spasmed as he started to reach out. He hesitated and then just barely brushed the baby's palm as though he expected his touch to poison or break her. The tiny hand reflexively closed around his finger, gripping it. Draco sat frozen. Hermione watched him and recognized the expression in his eyes as he looked down at the little person who was clinging tenaciously to him. Possessive and adoring.

I must admit,” he said in a low voice as though it were a confession, “if anyone had told me that you’d become so lovely, I would never have come near you. I was rather blindsided when I first saw you again.” She stared at him in confusion. “You’re like a rose in a graveyard,” he said, and his lips curved into a bitter smile. “I wonder what you could have turned into without the war.

I hope you read this, whoever you are, and imagine that there is a hypothetical person out there who needs your love, has been waiting silently, patiently for it all his life, is flawed and downright ugly at times and yet would have just eaten up any tiny bit of affection you had been willing to give, had you ever stopped your own happy life to notice. And then imagine that this hypothetical person is real, because he probably is.... Wish I’d met you. Wish I wasn’t your hypothetical. But you’re reading this, which means a few minutes ago, I went into that bathroom and pulled the trigger. You probably heard it. Sorry. You’re welcome. Thank you. And please. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

Bütün çağların trajedisi bu, Ku-ya-ra; 'Kumda yatma rahatlığı.' A-da-ko: 'Ağaç dalı kompleksi.' Şimdi kumda yattığım için kuyara diyorum. Daha da genişletilebilir. Kuyara, alışılmış tatların sürüp gitmesindeki rahatlıktır. Düşünmeden uyuyuvermek. Biteviye geçen günlerin kolaylığı. Ya Adako? Ağaç dalındaki, gövdeden ayrılma eğilimini fark ettin mi bilmem? Hep öteye öteye uzar. Gövdenin toprağa kök salmış rahatlığından bir kaçıştır bu. Özgürlüğe susamışlıktır. Buna ben 'ağaç dalı kompleksi' diyorum. Genç hastalığıdır. Çoğunlukla Kuyara dişidir. Adako erkek. Pek seyrek cins değiştirdikleri de olur. Ağaç dalı kompleksine tutulmuş kişi tedirgindir. İnsanların ağaç dallarını budayıp gövdeye yaklaştırdıkları gibi, yakınları onun içindeki bu Adako'yu da budarlar. Onu gövdeden ayırmamak için ellerinden geleni yaparlar. Kimi insana ne yapılsa yararı olmaz. Asi daldır o. Ayrılır. Balta işlemez ona.

Sometimes at night I worry about TAMMY. I worry that she might get tired of it all. Tired of running at sixty-six terahertz, tired of all those processing cycles, every second of every hour of every day. I worry that one of these cycles she might just halt her own subroutine and commit software suicide. And then I would have to do an error report, and I don't know how I would even begin to explain that to Microsoft.

......cut us off from our families, our history. So we made it our own place - Chinatown. A place for preservation and self-preservation; give them what they feel what's right, is safe; make it fit the idea of what is out there..Chinatown and indeed being chinese is and always has been, from the very beginning a construction,a performance of features, gestures, culture and exoticism, invention/reinvention of stylization.

As the shock was too great, the muscles in my left foot suddenly lost their strength. This led to it bending at the wrong angle and kicking into the muscle at the back of my lower right leg, which in turn caused the angle of my right knee to be incorrect and rendered it unable to direct my thigh to move in such a way as for me to take a step forward... Although it all sounds terribly complicated, simply put, this situation can be summarized as— I tripped.

I want the next Muggle-born witch with stars in her eyes to come into a world that welcomes her. A world where she doesn’t have to constantly re-earn her right to be there and isn't treated like wanting to exist is stealing something from someone else. Where she’ll get to grow up and graduate. Get any job she wants, get married and have children, and grow old with someone. I didn’t—,” her voice broke off briefly. “I—won’t get to have any of those things. I want to make the world I wanted to live in.

Look at that," he said. "How the ink bleeds." He loved the way it looked, to write on a thick pillow of the pad, the way the thicker width of paper underneath was softer and allowed for a more cushiony interface between pen and surface, which meant more time the two would be in contact for any given point, allowing the fiber of the paper to pull, through capillary action, more ink from the pen, more ink, which meant more evenness of ink, a thicker, more even line, a line with character, with solidity. The pad, all those ninety-nine sheets underneath him, the hundred, the even number, ten to the second power, the exponent, the clean block of planes, the space-time, really, represented by that pad, all of the possible drawings, graphs, curves, relationships, all of the answers, questions, mysteries, all of the problems solvable in that space, in those sheets, in those squares.

It’s a blur—dense, raucous, exhausting—feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn’t go anyone’s way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you’ll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

Mr. Wu, is it true that you have an internalized sense of inferiority? That because on the one hand you, for obvious reasons, have not been and can never be fully assimilated into mainstream, i.e., White America— And on the other hand neither do you feel fully justified in claiming solidarity with other historically and currently oppressed groups. That while your community’s experience in the United States has included racism on the personal and the institutional levels, including but not limited to: immigration quotas, actual federal legislation expressly excluding people who look like you from entering the country. Legislation that was in effect for almost a century. Antimiscegenation laws. Discriminatory housing policies. Alien land laws and restrictive covenants. Violation of civil liberties including internment. That despite all of that, you somehow feel that your oppression, because it does not include the original American sin—of slavery—that it will never add up to something equivalent. That the wrongs committed against your ancestors are incommensurate in magnitude with those committed against Black people in America. And whether or not that quantification, whether accurate or not, because of all of this you feel on some level that you maybe can’t even quite verbalize, out of shame or embarrassment, that the validity and volume of your complaints must be calibrated appropriately, must be in proportion to the aggregate suffering of your people. Your oppression is second-class.