Quotes About Expression

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

I like to listen to sad music when I'm sad. It seems honest. It makes me cry, and sometimes a good cry is the only thing that can make you feel better.

It is such a terrifying thing to see a man cry.

I think, actually, that none of us understands anyone else very well, because we're all too shy to show what matters the most. If you ask me, it's a major design flaw. We ought to be able to say, Here, look what I am. I think it would be quite a relief.

If you see a sunset and try to describe it to someone in normal words, all you can say is, 'Boy, I saw a great sunset last night.' But if you are a poet, you give it to someone to feel for themselves. Like you make a little seed of what you saw, they swallow it, and it blooms again inside their own hearts.

Nothing helped until the day she took a tablet and pencil into the basement and moved the event out of her and onto paper, where it was reshaped into a kind of simple equation: loss equaled the need to love again, more.

I am in agreement with Goethe, who said that every day one ought to ´´hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.´´ I would add to this the need to love. Without it, the rest is dust.´´

wear a hat and some old lady shoes, and you can do whatever you want.

Now there's some honest writing!

If you say something over and over again, it begins to lose it's meaning... Say anything enough times and it becomes gibberish.

I am in agreement with Goethe, who said that every day one ought to 'hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.' I would add to this the need to love. Without it, the rest is dust.

It's not that he doesn't smile; it's that if his smile were something you drew, you'd erase it, thinking, Wrong.

John strums the guitar and begins to sing, "When I die / don't put me in the ground / Put my ashes in the ashtray / and drive me around." He sings the word around like James Taylor does, with a long a. Iris laughs. "Did you write that?" "Nope. A genius songwriter named Warren Nelson wrote that.

are pinched tightly together, she attempts a smile. Arthur can't help it; he thinks she looks constipated.

She thinks it was Margaret Atwood who said that wanting to meet a writer because you like their work was like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté. So

He looks like a man who is stricken, trying not to look stricken. He

A human being writes the book, but what writes for him or her is more spirit than physical being, and that spirit lives only in solitude.

She picked out a pleasing mismatch of dishes from various thrift stores. "They speak the same language," Maddy said, about the dishes. "But they're not all saying the same thing.

It's all broken glass inside me, she once wrote in her journal, when she was in high school. I breathe, and I cut myself.

beret sleeves.

She walked about with the rather fated expression you see in photographs of girls who have subsequently been murdered, but nothing had so far happened to her.

Writers do not find subjects; subjects find them.

I feel so lucky at being able to do what I love. Writing has proved to be a fascinating journey – without maps and compass at times – but it is one where I am continually learning.