A Quote by Kazuo Ishiguro

Don’t you wonder sometimes, what might have happened if you tried? — © Kazuo Ishiguro
Don’t you wonder sometimes, what might have happened if you tried?
I sometimes wonder if I would have become a writer if what happened to my father hadn't happened.
To me, it's important, always in life, to never wonder what would've happened if I only tried something.
Don't be that guy that's laying in that hospital bed going, 'I wonder what would have happened if I tried it?' The worst thing that could happen is that it doesn't work.
Sometimes when I'm going to sleep, I think, 'Oh God, my future husband is out there somewhere and I might know him, or I might not, and I wonder what he's doing and I wonder if he knows me.' I just always think that's so fascinating, that even when you were two years old, your future husband was out there somewhere.
I consider Rahman as a great composer. I had a lump in my throat when I heard his name being announced. I thanked God that he got an Oscar for Original Score, that was more than enough for me. I wonder what might have happened to me if I had gone there. I might have cried.
I sometimes wonder what would've happened if I'd entered the competition instead - I'd probably have come nowhere and given up on the whole fiction game.
After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if the first book had not sold... doesn't bear thinking about, but I suppose we'd have made it work somehow.
And a lot of poetry is putting yourself back into the state of wonder that you have before things when you're a child. It's not only a joyous wonder, it's sometimes a grief stricken wonder.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't become an actor. If perhaps I'd stayed on at university and become an academic.
The artist's work, it is sometimes said, is to celebrate. But really that is not so; it is to express wonder. And something terrible resides at the heart of wonder. Celebration is social, amenable. Wonder has a chaotic splendor.
If you work as a curator, as I do, at Hampton Court, you sometimes wonder if there might be more to life than Henry VIII.
Perhaps we might, within the anatomy of our imaginations, think once more of the naked body as a vessel of grace, taste and wonder. In the spotted history of art, stranger things have happened.
I have tried to remove weight, sometimes from people, sometimes from heavenly bodies, sometimes from cities; above all I have tried to remove weight from the structure of stories and from language.
Sometimes a week might go by when I don't think about that game, but I don't remember when it happened last.
Sometimes a week might go by when I don't think about the (perfect) game, but I don't remember when it happened last.
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