Zandy > Zandy's Quotes

“So many books, so little time.”
― Frank Zappa

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
― Anais Nin

“Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.”
― James A. Baldwin

“Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven

“To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.”
― David Viscott

“Traveling in the company of those we love is home in motion.”
― Leigh Hunt

“I am not a believer in love at first sight. For love, in its truest form, is not the thing
of starry-eyed or star-crossed lovers, it is far more organic, requiring nurturing and time
to fully bloom, and, as such, seen best not in its callow youth but in its wrinkled maturity.
Like all living things, love, too, struggles against hardship, and in the process sheds
its fatuous skin to expose one composed of more than just a storm of emotion–one of loyalty
and divine friendship. Agape. And though it may be temporarily blinded by adversity,
it never gives in or up, holding tight to lofty ideals that transcend this earth and
time–while its counterfeit simply concludes it was mistaken and quickly runs off to
find the next real thing.”
― Richard Paul Evans, The Letter

“Love is not enough. It must be the foundation, the cornerstone- but not the complete structure. It is much too pliable, to yielding.”
― Bette Davis

“Season late, day late, sun just down, and the sky
Cold gunmetal but with a wash of live rose, and she,
From water the color of sky except where
Her motion has fractured it to shivering splinters of silver,
Rises. Stands on the raw grass. Against
The new-curdling night of spruces, nakedness
Glimmers and, at bosom and flank, drips
With fluent silver. The man,

Some ten strokes out, but now hanging
Motionless in the gunmetal water, feet
Cold with the coldness of depth, all
History dissolving from him, is
Nothing but an eye. Is an eye only. Sees

The body that is marked by his use, and Time's,
Rise, and in the abrupt and unsustaining element of air,
Sway, lean, grapple the pond-bank. Sees
How, with that posture of female awkwardness that is,
And is the stab of, suddenly perceived grace, breasts bulge down in
The pure curve of their weight and buttocks
Moon up and, in swelling unity,
Are silver and glimmer. Then

The body is erect, she is herself, whatever
Self she may be, and with an end of the towel grasped in each hand,
Slowly draws it back and forth across back and buttocks, but
With face lifted toward the high sky, where
The over-wash of rose color now fails. Fails, though no star
Yet throbs there. The towel, forgotten,
Does not move now. The gaze
Remains fixed on the sky. The body,

Profiled against the darkness of spruces, seems
To draw to itself, and condense in its whiteness, what light
In the sky yet lingers or, from
The metallic and abstract severity of water, lifts. The body,
With the towel now trailing loose from one hand, is
A white stalk from which the face flowers gravely toward the high sky.
This moment is non-sequential and absolute, and admits
Of no definition, for it
Subsumes all other, and sequential, moments, by which
Definition might be possible. The woman,

Face yet raised, wraps,
With a motion as though standing in sleep,
The towel about her body, under her breasts, and,
Holding it there hieratic as lost Egypt and erect,
Moves up the path that, stair-steep, winds
Into the clamber and tangle of growth. Beyond
The lattice of dusk-dripping leaves, whiteness
Dimly glimmers, goes. Glimmers and is gone, and the man,

Suspended in his darkling medium, stares
Upward where, though not visible, he knows
She moves, and in his heart he cries out that, if only
He had such strength, he would put his hand forth
And maintain it over her to guard, in all
Her out-goings and in-comings, from whatever
Inclemency of sky or slur of the world's weather
Might ever be. In his heart he cries out. Above

Height of the spruce-night and heave of the far mountain, he sees
The first star pulse into being. It gleams there.

I do not know what promise it makes him. ”
― Robert Penn Warren

“جَمال المرْأةِ لا يُرى....إنه يُكتَشَفْ ”
― مريد البرغوثي

“علمتني الحياة أن علينا أن نحب الناس بالطريقة التي يحبون أن نحبهم بها”
― مريد البرغوثي, رأيت رام الله

“أنت لا تبتهج فورا بمجرد أن تضغط الحياة زرا يدير دولاب الأحداث لصالحك أنت لا تصل إلى نقطة البهجة المحلوم بها طويلا عبر السنوات وأنت أنت . إن السنوات محمولة على كتفيك . تفعل فعلها البطيء دون أن تقرع لك أية أجراس ”
― مريد البرغوثي, رأيت رام الله

“ليس هناك ماهو موحش للمرء أكثر من أن يُنادى عليه بهذا النداء يا أخ
ياأخ هي بالتحديد , العبارةُ التي تُلغي الأخوة !”
― مريد البرغوثي, رأيت رام الله

“كلّما قالوا انتهى، فاجأتُهُمْ أَنّي ابتدأتْ ”
― مريد البرغوثي

“ـ (يا أخ) هي ، بالتحديد ، العبارة التي تلغي الأخوة! ـ”
― مريد البرغوثي, رأيت رام الله

“والقهوة يجب أن يقدّمها لك شخصٌ ما. القهوةُ كالوَرْد، فالورد يقدّمه لك سِواك، ولا أحدَ يقدّم ورداً لنفسه. وإن أعددتها لنفسك فأنت لحظتها في عزلة حرة بلا عاشق أو عزيز، غريبٌ في مكانك. وإن كان هذا اختياراً فأنت تدفع ثمن حريتك، وإن كان اضطراراً فأنت في حاجةٍ إلى جرس الباب.”
― مريد البرغوثي, ولدت هناك .. ولدت هنا

“We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with light weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.”
― William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors

“Just because something is unspoken doesn't mean that it disappears.”
― Alice Hoffman, Incantation

“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”
― Michael Cunningham, The Hours

“Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

“Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the woman's womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. Woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to be. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment man rests inside of her.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”
― anaïs nin

“life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity, & stumble from defeat to defeat.”
― anaïs nin

“She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.”
― Anaïs Nin

“You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.”
― Anaïs Nin

“Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions.”
― Anaïs Nin, HENRY AND JUNE