Quotes About Expression

She wanted to do this, too, but was afraid. I supported her totally and explained, "There is nobody like you. Just be yourself." I said, "Do it for the fun of it. There are people out there looking for exactly what you have to offer. Let them know you exist.

I am the living, loving, joyous expression of life. All is well in my world.

THROAT: I can speak for myself. I express myself freely. I am creative. I speak with love.

The middle finger has to do with sex and with anger. When you are angry, hold your middle finger and watch the anger dissolve. Hold

When I say "needing the problem," I mean that according to our particular set of thought patterns, we "need" to have certain outer effects or experiences. Every outer effect is the natural expression of an inner thought pattern. To battle only the outer effect or symptom is wasted energy and often increases the problem.

Words have the power to shoot down or raise up. Sharp cutting words can whirl for years.

Six Stars,' he exclaimed. 'Finding the right words is hard!

I'm not embarrassed about the novels I wrote when I was younger, but I couldn't write them today because of my religion.

To be silent. In hopes of not offending, in hopes of being accepted. But what happened to people who never spoke, never raised their voices? Kept everything inside? Gamache knew what happened. Everything they swallowed, every word, thought, feeling rattled around inside, hollowing the person out. And into that chasm they stuffed their words, their rage.

You too?" She asked Ruth. "How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said.

Beauvoir left their home wanting to call his wife and tell her how much he loved her, and then tell her what he believed in, and his fears and hopes and disappointments. To talk about something real and meaningful. He dialed his cell phone and got her. But the words got caught somewhere south of his throat. Instead he told her the weather had cleared, and she told him about the movie she'd rented. Then they both hung up.

But they both knew that words were weapons too, and when fashioned into a story their power was almost limitless.

The lines of his face were the longitude and latitude of his life.

Despite himself, Beauvoir laughed. "There is strong shadow where there is much light." ... But most he loved a happy human face.

Her voice was flat, in a way Myrna recognized from years of listening to people trying to rein in their emotions. To squash them down, flatten, them, and with them their words and their voices. Desperately trying to make the horrific sound mundane.

How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said. "Isn't that normally just a cocktail olive lodged there?" Olivier asked. "Once," Ruth admitted. "Wrote quite a good poem before I coughed it up.

He often said that words told them what someone was thinking, but the tone told them how they felt.

Olivier looked at him blankly. But the Chief Inspector had seen that look before. It was, in fact, almost impossible to look blank. Unless the person wanted to. A blank face to the Chief Inspector meant a frantic mind.

Homes, Gamache knew, were a self-portrait. A person's choice of color, furnishing, pictures.

We don't just sing; we are the song.

She painted what appeared to be portraits, but that was only on the surface. The beautifully rendered flesh stretched, and sometimes sagged, over wounds, over celebrations. Over chasms of loss and rushes of joy. She painted peace and despair. All in one portrait. With brush and canvas and oils, Clara both captured and freed her subject.

A coy smile could capture him, but it was finally a hearty laugh that had freed him.

She'd never actually smiled at a family reunion before. It felt odd.

Their creations eventually die of neglect, of malnourishment. And sometimes, when that happens the artist also dies.