A Quote by Jorge Luis Borges
He thought that the rose was to be found in its own eternity and not in his words; and that we may mention or allude to a thing, but not express it.
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...Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an equal fate; And when at last defeated in His wars, They have gone down under the same white stars, We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
I very rarely think in words at all. A thought comes, and I may try to express in words afterwards.
I very rarely think in words at all. A thought comes, and I may try to express it in words afterwards.
His words filled my heart to the brim. I loved him in a way I’d never be able to express in words. He was part of me. And I was part of him. Tethered together for the rest of eternity.
Rose: "If you'd teach me to swear in Russian, I might have a new appreciation for it."Dimitri: "You swear too much already."Rose: "I just want to express myself."Dimitri: "Oh, Roza… You express yourself more than anyone else I know."- Rose Hathaway & Dimitri Belikov (Frostbite)
One man who saw through his own eyes and thought with his own brain. Such men may be rare, they may be unknown, but they move the world.
I find myself frequently placed where I
dare give neither assent nor dissent to propositions that are submitted to me;
for there is danger that any words I may speak shall be reported as something
that the Lord has given me. It is not always safe for me to express my own
judgment; for sometimes when someone wishes to carry out his own purpose,
he will regard any favorable word I may speak as special light from the Lord
The human race may be compared to a writer. At the outset a writer has often only a vague general notion of the plan of his work, and of the thought he intends to elaborate. As he proceeds, penetrating his material, laboring to express himself fitly, he lays a firmer grasp on his thought; he finds himself. So the human race is writing its story, finding itself, discovering its own underlying purpose, revising, recasting a tale pathetic often, yet none the less sublime.
Idleness is often covered by turbulence and hurry. He that neglects his known duty and real employment naturally endeavours to crowd his mind with something that may bar out the remembrance of his own folly, and does any thing but what he ought to do with eager diligence, that he may keep himself in his own favour.
I thought I dreamed you." The words whisper from my parched throat. His head tilts to one side, his mouth shifting to something less sarcastic, more amused. "That may be the most enchanting thing I've ever been told after spending the night with a girl.
No man can afford to express, through words or acts, that which is not in harmony with his own beliefs, and if he does so, he must pay by the loss of his ability to influence others.
No,''he said.''I was a Strigoi. I was one of them. I did...terrible things.'' The words were mild, but the tone of his voice spoke legions. The radiant faces of his family turned sober.''I was lost. Beyond hope. Except...Rose believed in me. Rose never gave up.
To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.
The pressure disappeared with the first word he put on paper. He thought--while his hand moved rapidly--what a power there was in words; later, for those who heard them, but first for the one who found them; a healing power, a solution, like the breaking of a barrier. He thought, perhaps the basic secret the scientists have not discovered, the first fount of life, is that which happens when a thought takes shape in words.
I don't want to give any lines to anybody because otherwise they come out like bricks from their mouths. The important thing is the meaning of the scene, not the words you use, and I prefer that you find your own words to express the scene.
When the Son on the Cross promises paradise in his company to the good thief, when he promises the future feast in Heaven to the Apostles, when he speaks of the kingdom of the Father, he is always pointing toward eternity. However brief and close to the earth his words sound, they echo throughout infinite eternity and permeate the faith of his followers with their eternal content. He knows what he speaks of, what he brings with him and what he promises; and he can convey it to those who know it not. The very words he uses are designed to awaken in them a new sense: the sense of the eternal.
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