Quotes About Expression

Would it insult you if I used your alphabet? I don't think I could start from scratch.

Kate had thought hula was something for tourists, girls in plastic skirts dancing to will songs about tiny bubbles in the champagne. Mehana's hula was different-a way of telling stories without words, a kimd of body poetry.

She would move around the kitchen, humming the words and dancing with her hands. The music was moving through her, filling an emptiness she hadn't known was so deep.

Sometimes this genius goes dark and drowns in the bitter wells of his heart.

She folded fat hands over a plump stomach and did her best to beam at him. The effect of the beam was spoiled by the wispy hair that straggled out from beneath her dowdy hat.

Artists often feel sad without knowing why. They sense the cruel inevitability of fate. They smell the coppery scent of death. All artists live in a permanent state of angst knowing that what they have created could have been better.

Money lets you be who you really are.

Why'd you want to sing about sad things? Candy had asked him. Because any fool can be happy, he'd said to her. It takes a man with real heart —he'd made a fist and laid it against his chest— to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.

There are lives lived for love, and lives lived for art. We, happy band, have chosen the later persuasion.

I dreamed a limitless book, A book unbound, Its leaves scattered in fantastic abundance. On every line there was a new horizon drawn, New heavens supposed; New states, new souls. One of those souls, Dozing through some imagined afternoon, Dreamed these words. And needing a hand to set them down, Made mine.

I will say it one last time: Demonation! The feeling of it! There are no words -how can there be?- to describe what it feels like to become words, to feel your life encoded, and laid out in black ink on white paper. All my love and hatred, melted into words. It was like the End of the World.

Who can call a man dead whose words still hush and whose sentiments move?

It was as though in these last minutes together--when they had so much to say--they could say nothing of the least significance, for fear it open the floodgates.

I'm a poet,' the young man said, 'And it's my job to remember the sadness of things.

I don't like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter , finally , because I do both things anyway . Everybody's dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best . I feel as much a unity , as much comradeship , with painters as I do writers .

Minds weren't pictures at an exhibition, all numbered, and hung in order of influence, one marked Cunning, the next, Impressionable. They were scrawls; they were sprawling splashes of graffiti, unpredictable, unconfinable.

My books are my confessions.

What did I see? It's no use telling you there are no words. Of course there are words; there are always words. The question is: can I wield them well enough to evoke the power of what I witnessed? That I doubt. But let me do my best.

I was a weird little kid. I was very irritable, bored, frustrated. I felt my imagination bubbling inside my head without having any way to express itself. Given a crayon and paper, I would not draw a train or a house. I would draw these monsters, beasts and demons.

In my Art I have but one fear: that we will fail to be fearless.

Make your own worlds. Make your own laws. Make your own creations, your own star systems. Don't feel answerable to anyone, or as though you have to create after some preordained model. You don't have to write like myself, or King or Anne Rice: be yourself. Nothing is more wonderful than discovering a new voice, particularly if it happens to be your own.

Sin lágrimas, por favor. Es un desperdicio de buen sufrimiento.

It's always what may not be shown that shows the most. Forbidden words are always the most eloquent.

and what constitutes the making of a true storyteller; someone who speaks directly to the reader's dreams with dreams of their own.