It s Quotes

“...a small part of me that worried that Tori wouldn’t be here when I arrived, that I pushed her too far, too fast, that somehow I read her wrong and asked her for more than she was willing to give. But she’s here. She’s magnificent. And she’s mine. That thought steals the air from my lungs. Her shoulders tense at my gasp, when she realizes she’s no longer alone. “Hello, beautiful,” my voice husky. I drop my bags by the door and swiftly cross the room. I only have a split second to take in how devastating she looks in her blue gown. I don’t know who moves first, but she’s in my arms as my lips descend on hers. With that first contact, the knot of tension that’s taken up residence between my shoulder blades releases, and I finally feel like I can breathe fully for the first time since I left for Los Angeles.”

“You see, Katie," Pastor Ron said, "that’s what makes faith so tough to grasp, but also makes it so wonderful. It’s all about believing in something—whether it’s God, or other people, or even yourself—when you’ve got nothing else to go on. Nothing but a little voice inside telling you it’s more than a hunch.”

“He pointed to the burning building as sirens heralded the approach of emergency personnel. “This is your job—this is your life. Blood and death and pain and vengeance and justice. And sometimes it sucks, but it’s worth it.”Caleb sighed, but not in resignation. “I know this is the job, and it is worth it. But I refuse to believe it’s my life. Not only and not forever.”Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose and waved dismissively with his other hand. “F***ing romantic.”

“The fact that our traditional method of extracting doctrine from Scripture does not work well on narrative does not mean that Bible stories do not send clear messages. Instead, it suggests that the way we apply our traditional method of interpretation is inadequate because we are ignoring too much of God’s Word.”

“Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman’s tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn’t find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn’t make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, “that was a good time then, a good time to be living.” And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean’s shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, “yes, that’s how it was then, that part there was called France.” I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes. We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture’s motion in time.”

“it’s hard giving out love to people who shove it back in your face. That’s not what love’s supposed to be about. No, it’s not perfect and people get hurt, but it’s a give and take. And it should be comfort, not pain.”

“Shadow is the blue patch where the light doesn’t hit. It is mystery itself, and mystery is the ancients’ ultima Thule, the modern explorer’s Point of Relative Inaccessibility, that boreal point most distant from all known lands. There the twin oceans of beauty and horror meet. The great glaciers are calving. Ice that sifted to earth as snow in the time of Christ shears from the pack with a roar and crumbles to water. It could be that our instruments have not looked deeply enough. The RNA deep in the mantis’s jaw is a beautiful ribbon. Did the crawling Polyphemus moth have in its watery heart one cell, and in that cell one special molecule, and that molecule one hydrogen atom, and round that atom’s nucleus one wild, distant electron that split showed a forest, swaying?”

“Hey, my spaghetti’s moving!” cried Mr. Twit, poking around in it with his fork.“It’s a new kind,” Mrs. Twit said, taking a mouthful from her own plate which of course had no worms. “It’s called Squiggly Spaghetti. It’s delicious. Eat it up while it’s nice and hot.”

“You’re going to turn the next page, because you still have hope. You hope there’s a little something more, and it’s nothing personal. People do it at the end of every book. I think that’s why publishers put in all those extra pages. So you have a chance to shuffle and flip through them while it sinks in. It’s over. The trip is done.You know it’s over, but you’re going to turn the page anyway.”

“Every country has its own problem too numerous to name, so does North Korea. And it’s no one’s business to solve the latter’s problem unless it seeks for it. If North Korea shows off its nuclear weapon capability, it’s because its sovereignty was threatened by foreign powers. It doesn’t want to happen to its country what’s happening now in Iraq, Syria, Libya, Afghanistan, and Yemen. Justice and charity begin at home, not at someone’s backyard. Hence, any country trying to solve North Korea’s problem by force or by any means should start first in its own backyard and solve the political and social injustices, divisions, and neglect suffered by its own citizens.”