Quotes About Expression

if I can't write poetry, at least perhaps I can try to think and feel like a poet.

The world is your exercise book, the pages on which you do your sums. It is not reality, though you may express reality there if you wish. You are also free to write lies, or nonsense, or to tear the pages.

Only a few people are interested in what you have to say, but that's all right. You don't tell the quality of a master by the size of his crowds, remember.

You are life, inventing form. No more can you die on sword or years than you can die on doorways through which you walk, one room into another. Every room gives its word for you to speak, every passage its song for you to sing.

Tell him I said that he will know when he's my age that books aren't written on whims or old promises. Books are written on years turned inside out by ideas that never let go until you get them in print, and even then writing's a last resort, a desperate ransom you pay to get your life back.

Right at the beginning, before the pianist could get her wheels up and fly into that storm, she was hit with a con brio, which I figured meant she had to play either with brightness, with coldness, or with cheese.

Os livros são escritos devido a anos virados do avesso por ideias que não nos libertam até serem escritas e, até mesmo então, a escrita é o último recurso, um resgate desesperado que pagamos para que a vida nos seja devolvida.

You're a perfect expression of perfect Love, perfect Life, here and now.

You have the freedom to be yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way. It is the law.

a thousand times: "You're a perfect expression of perfect Love, here and now. You will have a perfect

Each of us is in truth an idea of the Great Gull, an unlimited idea of freedom," Jonathan would say in the evenings on the beach, "and precision flying is a step toward expressing our real nature. Everything that limits us we have to put aside. That's why all this high-speed practice, and low-speed, and aerobatics …

It took time to learn that the hard thing about writing is to let the story write itself, while one sits at the typewriter and does as little thinking as possible. It happened over and over again, and the beginner learned — when you start puzzling over an idea, and slowing down on the keys, the writing gets worse and worse.

When he said that, he looked lonelier than I had ever seen a man still alive. He didn't need food or shelter or money or fame. He was dying of his need to say what he knew, and nobody cared enough to listen. I frowned at him, so as not to cry.

Is there a rule that a messiah can't write what he thinks is true, the things that have been fun for him, that work for him? And then maybe if people don't like what he says, instead of shooting him they can burn his words, hit the ashes with a stick? And if they do like it, they can read the words another time, or write them on a regrigerator door, or play with whatever ideas make sense to them? Is there something wrong with writing?

Cuando me siento inspirado y feliz, los versos son infinitos, porque entonces la rima no es importante.

Ömür; 'içinizdeki as?l sizi', hayal edebileceÄŸiniz en maceraperest ve yarat?c? biçimde ifade etmeniz için size verilmiÅŸ bir ÅŸanst?r.

His eyes were as blank and bright as doorknobs.

Brad looked at his wife with that expression of love that is the sole property of people who have been married over ten years.

I had the thought that this is what true civilization really is; not the cities or the monuments or the statecraft or even the politics: but this. This slip of a lady, with barely the physical power to get around on her own unaided, holding a thousand others in thrall, threaded together on the silence by the force and power of her art, her being, her imagining.

By the way, Doc Edwards said. How's that book coming along? Oh, it's coming along. Fine. What's it about? Just what I'm writing down: one word after another. Good.

I daydream about a high school where everybody plays the harmonica: the students, the teachers, the principal, the janitor and the cook in the cafeteria.

She had a voice that made Pearl Harbor seem like a lullaby.

It's all right, she said. It's all right. That was really a very nice sound. There should be a bird that does that: that sings when you are impotent.

One day he decided that his liking for poetry could not be fully expressed in just reading poetry or listening to poets reading on phonograph records. He decided to take the plumbing out of his house and completely replace it with poetry, and so he did.