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“There was something familiar but strange about her - Snow White with a suntan. Cinderella in biker boots. Tough and delicate and magical and real all at once.”
Allyse Near“There was something familiar but strange about her - Snow White with a suntan. Cinderella in biker boots. Tough and delicate and magical and real all at once.”
Allyse Near, Fairytales for Wilde Girls“And they lived ever after, whether they were happy about it or not.”
Allyse Near, Fairytales for Wilde Girls“Well," I ask, leaning over him, "do you wish to stay?""I do.""And why is that, Cole?" I say, tipping toward him so that our noses nearly brush."Well," he says with a smile, "the weather's quite nice.”
Victoria Schwab, The Near Witch“Nearly' only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades.”
Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book“I am so glad that God miraculously save my life at near-death.”
Lailah Gifty Akita“I am as sure as I live that nothing is so near to me as God. God is nearer to me than I am to myself”
my existence depends on the nearness and the presence of God.“I’m helped by a gentle notion from Buddhist psychology, that there are “near enemies” to every great virtue—reactions that come from a place of care in us, and which feel right and good, but which subtly take us down an ineffectual path. Sorrow is a near enemy to compassion and to love. It is borne of sensitivity and feels like empathy. But it can paralyze and turn us back inside with a sense that we can’t possibly make a difference. The wise Buddhist anthropologist and teacher Roshi Joan Halifax calls this a “pathological empathy” of our age. In the face of magnitudes of pain in the world that come to us in pictures immediate and raw, many of us care too much and see no evident place for our care to go. But compassion goes about finding the work that can be done. Love can’t help but stay present”
Krista Tippett, Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living“There were two ways of looking at it: imagining that it was far away and big, in the first place; in the second, that it was small and near. But at any rate, a stupid, hard, brown mountain. How she hated nature sometimes.”
Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart