Some of the greatest moments in life come from moments that are incomplete.
If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.
Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.
When we're incomplete, we're always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we're still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on - series polygamy - until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimension to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.
Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists... When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
Not everything in life can or should be explained. Part of every painting should be incomplete...to be completed in the mind of the viewer.
Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.
Happiness should always remain a bit incomplete. After all, dreams are boundless.
Every great painting is left incomplete at the point where its completion is obvious.
We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.
True beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally complete the incomplete.
It's terrifying to show incomplete footage.
A man in love is incomplete until he has married. Then he's finished.
Two incomplete people can't complete one another. Complete yourself and then let someone else complement you.
If you feel incomplete, you alone must fill yourself with love in all your empty shattered spaces
A golden rule: to leave an incomplete image of oneself.
Nature makes nothing incomplete, and nothing in vain.
My life feels, week to week, incomplete to the level of being pointless if I am not in preparation for the next play or, ideally, into it.
No matter where i go, i still end up me. What's missing never changes. The scenery may change, but i'm still the same incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that i can never satisfy. I think that lack itself is as close as i'll come to defining myself.
The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.
A one-eyed man is much more incomplete than a blind man, for he knows what it is that's lacking.
Each of us is incomplete compared to someone else - an animal's incomplete compared to a person... and a person compared to God, who is complete only to be imaginary.
Love is an immortal wound that cannot be closed up. A person loses something, a part of her soul, when she loves someone. And she goes about looking for that lost part of her soul, for she knows that otherwise she is incomplete and cannot be at rest. It is only when she is with the person she loves that she becomes complete again in herself; but the moment he leaves, she loses that part which he has taken with him and knows no rest till she has found him once more.
Each way to suicide is its own: intensely private, unknowable, and terrible. Suicide will have seemed to its perpetrator the last and best of bad possibilities, and any attempt by the living to chart this final terrain of life can be only a sketch, maddeningly incomplete
An educated person is one who has learned that information almost always turns out to be at best incomplete and very often false, misleading, fictitious, mendacious - just dead wrong.
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