Quotes About Comfort

Mother did not answer. She was still gazing up at the sky. After a while she said, I made up a sort of saying for myself, Nat. I will lift up my eyes unto the stars. Sometimes, if you look at the stars long enough, it helps. It shrinks your day-by-day troubles down to size. She smiled. 'We'd better go back. Granny and Father will be wondering where we are.

Nat was by her, holding her hand, when she died.

No, Nezzie. No medicine can make him well,' she replied in a firm voice that was tinged with sorrow.

In a world so empty of human life, there was comfort in the thought that an invisible realm of spirits was aware of their existence, cared about their actions, and perhaps directed their steps. Even a stern or inimical spirit who cared enough to demand certain actions of appeasement was better than the heartless disregard of a harsh and indifferent world, in which their lives were entirely in their own hands, with no one else to turn to in time of need, not even in their thoughts.

said. "Make Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Noria Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Make Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â She heaved a sob, wishing she knew the words to tell him what she wanted to say. "I know, Noria. I know," he said

Time is our friend in trouble," she said, "because it tells us that the sorrow cannot last for ever.

Elle meurt dans mes bras d'un mal qu'elle me cache.

Est-ce ainsi que vos yeux consolent ma disgrâce?

I have been here five days. I have decided on a place to eat in at midday, a place to eat in at night, a place to have my drink in after dinner. I have arranged my little life.

I can't sleep,' he said. 'Let me lie with my head on your silver breast.

Better not I tell you. You want to know what I do? I say doudou , if you have trouble you are right to come to me. And I kiss her. It's when I kiss her she cry - not before.

An anxious expression spread over his face as he thought to himself that the time was coming when he would have to give up this comfort, and then that comfort, until God knew what would be the end of it all. In this way he was an imaginative man, and when these fits of foreboding overcame him he genuinely forgot that only a succession of highly improbable catastrophes could reduce him to the penury he so feared.

Yes, we are [friends] and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often. I don't want to lose this happy space where I have found someone who is smart and easy and doesn't bother to check their diary when we arrange to meet.

In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm.

I feel in colour, strong tones that I hue down for the comfort of the pastelly inclined. Beige and magnolia and a hint of pink are what the well-decorated heart is wearing; who wants my blood red and vein-blue?

Writers are not here to conform. We are here to challenge. We're not here to be comfortable—we're here, really, to shake things up. That's our job.

what he told himself on those sea-soaked nights...Others joined in and it was discovered that every light had a story-no, every light was a story. And the flashes themselves were the stories going out over the waves, as markers and guides and comfort and warning.

I'm always nervous about going home, just as I am nervous about rereading books that have meant a lot to me.

In the modern world there was so much safety that safety had become the chief source of danger.

I reflected that without language, or before language, the mind cannot comfort itself.

You were loved then and you are loved now. Isn't that enough?

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I'm warm.

I was not so sure but too tired and too relieved to go further that night. To reach one another again had been far enough.