“Talent is a wonderful thing, but it won't carry a quitter. ”
“If I kept saying it; if I kept reaching out. My accident really taught me just one thing: the only way to go on is to go on. To say 'I can do this' even when you know you can't.”
“We fool ourselves so much we could do it for a living.”
“God always punishes us for what we can't imagine.”
“Art should be a place of hope.”
“because the hardest boss a man can ever have is himself.”
“That's clear about the end of my other life, how I kept saying 'I can do this' even when I knew I couldn't, even when I knew I was fucked, I was dead ass fucked in the pouring rain. ”
“Life is like Friday on a soap opera. It gives you the illusion that everything is going to wrap up, and then the same old shit starts up on Monday.”
“A person's memory is everything, really. Memory is identity. It's you.”
“I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations.
And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly red). Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.”
“If you want to play, you gotta pay.”
“The truth is in the details.”
“In the end we always wear out our worries. That’s what Wireman says.”
“The only religions I don't like are the ones that insist their God is bigger than your God.”
“Art is the concrete artifact of faith and expectation, the realization of a world that would otherwise be little more than a veil of pointless consciousness stretched over a gulf of mystery.”
“I win, you win. You win, I win. The gun, I win. The fruit, you win. I win, you win.”
“Make-up covers a multitude of sins.”
“Successful rebellions always begin in secret.”
“I just didn't want her to get hurt. I thought she was going to be. But everyone gets their share, don't they? Sure. Pow, in the nose. Pow, in the eye. Pow, below the belt, down you go, and the ref just went out for a hot dog.”
“You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.”
“In the end, we wear out our worries.”
“How do we remember to remember? That's a question I've asked myself often since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. Or so I've come to believe.”
“Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.”
“The loss of memory isn't always the problem; sometimes--maybe even often--it's the solution.”
“if you tell yourself the great lie of bad art-that you are in charge-your chance at the truth will be lost. The truth isn't always pretty.”
“Clear communication between selves - the surface self and the deep self - is the enemy of self-doubt. It slays confusion.”
“You got style, you got class, you got the lips to kiss my ass.”
“Do the day and let the day do you.”
“Stay hungry. It worked for Michelangelo, it worked for Picasso, and it works for a hundred thousand artists who do it not for love (although that might play a part) but in order to put food on the table. If you want to translate the world, you need to use your appetites. Does this surprise you? It shouldn’t. There’s no creation without talent, I give you that, but talent is cheap. Talent goes begging. Hunger is the piston of art.”
“Are you still forgetting things?" "I don't know, I can't remember," I said.”
“Many people live and die without ever confronting themselves in the darkness. Pray that one day, you will spin around at the water’s edge, lean over, and be able to count yourself among the lucky.”
“He saw the black water and the declining sun and the swan dipping down, its white wings flashing, and slowing and slowing till silver ripples carried it home. It was a scene which seemed the heart of this land. The lowing sun and the one star waking, white wings on a black water, and the smell of rain, and the long lane fading where a voice comes in the falling night.
--Ireland, said Scrotes.
--Yes, this is Ireland.
”
“Look at that sky,” Livvie said. “Uh-huh,” I said. “Ain’t it marvelous?” “Yeah, it’s marvelous.” “No, chile o’ mine, you ain’t understanding what I’m telling you.” Her voice was so soft and loving, it was hard to keep my worries on my mind. “What do ya mean?” “See them stars starting to twinkle? They’s Gawd’s diamonds. You ’eah me? And the night sky turning so blue? That’s He sapphires for us. And see that streak of red across the horizon? They’s a field of rubies. Whenever you feel troubled and poor in the spirit, just go look at the sunset and all Gawd’s riches just be a-waiting for you.” “Yeah, sure, Livvie,” I said. “I ain’t lying to you, chile. I is telling you for true.” I looked at the sky and it was full of riches,”
“If the leader is a good man he will be liked and if he’s not, he won’t, and if he is a good man and a bad leader then he is better off dead.”
“The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also massively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repetitive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: ‘Are you going to be warm enough?’ If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: ‘I don’t know about that. It’s enough to have food on the table today.’ Her days were spent cleaning other people’s sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create balls of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold. Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.”
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