The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that is cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.
No one is ever ordinary.
Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.
We need the expressive arts, the ancient scribes, the storytellers, the priests.
I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.
The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.
When I am fascinated by something, I like to play with it.
Flat or round, there has always been hate in the world.
The so-called Real World. Human misery and sadness. Blind politics and general cruelty.
A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.
Ecstasy and vulnerability belonged in the same dish. The fear the cup would be snatched away was what gave the wine its savor.
I like writing about women, weak and strong, pathetic and heroic. I like writing about men, ditto. And all the variants of men and women, beasts and demons.
I never know where I am going, though. That is part of what makes it so wonderful. And after all, who does?
Madness. I did not get myself born to die. I have better things to do.
If I ever get to 100, I'd want to be filled with wonder and wild, adolescent, wide-eyed interest in newness. So let's keep the flame burning. Let's stop thinking everyone over 29, or 49, has to be reinforced by concrete.
I must suppose that reading wonderful writers may, inadvertently, teach an avid reader a great deal -- not only about life and other matters, but about how to write. Therefore doubtless I have benefited from frequent immersions in the glowing genius of others. It would be nice to think so. (I do actually think so). But to improve my skills will never be the prompting force of my reading -- that's just literary lust.
We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.
I simply write what I want, wish, long to write.... The state of human life and the god or demon within. The constant internal war that being alive can conjure.
Dawn rose from the desert and turned the river to wine.
She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.
Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.
If you run away from trouble, it always follows.' Rather my impression, too. Though that never stopped me trying.
Oh, love. Love is best of all. There is no such total element, not even pain. Who has ever loved, knows this. I need not say more.
Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and nonfiction. And even there, who can be sure?
Never be afraid of a cliché, if it expresses what you wish to say.
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