A Quote by Hisham Matar

Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo. — © Hisham Matar
Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.
For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.
The interesting thing about grief, I think, is that it is its own size. It is not the size of you. It is its own size. And grief comes to you. You know what I mean? I’ve always liked that phrase “He was visited by grief,” because that’s really what it is. Grief is its own thing. It’s not like it’s in me and I’m going to deal with it. It’s a thing, and you have to be okay with its presence. If you try to ignore it, it will be like a wolf at your door.
The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
I know a lady that loves to talk so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words!
My daughter wants to do yoga with me and wants to be in the theater thing, and I can't tell her, 'Don't be an actress.' My son loves guitar and loves to be in a band and wants his iTunes downloaded with all this old-school hip-hop so he understands where hip-hop came from.
I can't see my reflection in the waters, I can't speak the sounds that show no pain. I can't hear the echo of my footsteps, or can't remember the sound of my own name.
I do not want an echo of myself from my children. I do not want to hear from them merely the reverberation of my own voice.
We hear the rain fall, but not the snow. Bitter grief is loud, calm grief is silent.
(a womanist) 3. Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.
In some Mayan villages they even have a stage beyond the elder that they call the Echo Person. They say that when an Echo Person, whether a man or a woman, speaks, the words echo both in this world and in the other world. That's why they are called Echo People.
With all the mass media concentrated in a few hands, the ancient faith in the competition of ideas in the free market seems like a hollow echo of a much simpler day.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
Desire, loneliness, wind in the flowering almond— surely these are the great, the inexhaustible subjects to which my predecessors apprenticed themselves. I hear them echo in my own heart, disguised as convention.
I don't knock material rappers, but let me hear it in a different way. How many songs do I have to hear about rims on a car? It's ridiculous. There's no substance. It's a hollow shell.
When people meet me, I hope that they say this: 'This is a guy who, number one, loves the Lord, but he also loves people, and he wants to make a difference in people's life. And he wants to help everyone he comes in contact with, and he is genuine, he is real, and he cares about people.'
When I was growing up, I think I was expected to be seen and not heard. You're this little, nerdy kid; no one wants to hear about how sad you are. Nobody wants to hear that you feel lonely.
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