Quotes by Writers - Page 121

From nothing comes everything.
Dejan Stojanovic
Earth is the source of light.
Dejan Stojanovic
With your goal you make the one.
Dejan Stojanovic
Although personal calling I sense,Who am I? even if I am, I don't know.
Dejan Stojanovic
When within yourself you find the road, the right road will open.
Dejan Stojanovic
To leave out beautiful sunsets is the secret of good taste.
Dejan Stojanovic
To keep the air fresh among words is the secret of verbal cleanliness.
Dejan Stojanovic
In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.
Dejan Stojanovic
To say more while saying less is the secret of being simple.
Dejan Stojanovic
The farther away, the closer the home becomes.
Dejan Stojanovic
There is nobody to wake up eternal seekers.
Dejan Stojanovic
If emptiness is endless, then everything rests in emptiness.
Dejan Stojanovic
When everything hurries everywhere, nothing goes anywhere.
Dejan Stojanovic
You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.
Dejan Stojanovic
There are no clear borders, Only merging invisible to the sight.
Dejan Stojanovic
The eyesight for an eagle is what thought is to a man.
Dejan Stojanovic
From everything, nothing looks to nothing.
Dejan Stojanovic
Digressions are part of harmony, deviations too.
Dejan Stojanovic
There is a pledge of the big and of the small in the infinite.
Dejan Stojanovic
Death swallows death.
Dejan Stojanovic
Vandals listen only when others are stronger.If vandals are equal or strongerTheir word is the last word.
Dejan Stojanovic
In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.
Dejan Stojanovic
Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.
Dejan Stojanovic
If emptiness is empty, how can something be borne or awaken from it?
Dejan Stojanovic
Nothing is part of everything.
Dejan Stojanovic
What does infinity mean to you? Are you not infinity and yourself?
Dejan Stojanovic
Will the day tell its secret Before it disappears, Becomes timeless night.
Dejan Stojanovic
From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.
Dejan Stojanovic
I can see myself before myself—A being through dark scenery.
Dejan Stojanovic
Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.
Dejan Stojanovic
All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.
Dejan Stojanovic
And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.
Dejan Stojanovic
Life eats life to live.
Dejan Stojanovic
Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.
Dejan Stojanovic
Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.
Dejan Stojanovic
He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.
Dejan Stojanovic
Instead of imitating me, you simply loiter.
Dejan Stojanovic
To jump over centuries In one step is impossible. Jump too high or far, You’ll be way too late.
Dejan Stojanovic
In the end, the world returns to a grain.
Dejan Stojanovic
One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.
Dejan Stojanovic
I travel, always arriving in the same place.
Dejan Stojanovic
My mathematics is simple: one plus one = one.
Dejan Stojanovic
We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.
Dejan Stojanovic
What you gain here, you lose on the other side.
Dejan Stojanovic
Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.
Dejan Stojanovic
In greatness, life and death merge.
Dejan Stojanovic
From one bell all the bells toll.
Dejan Stojanovic
Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.
Dejan Stojanovic
They are both spectacular, Life and death.
Dejan Stojanovic
While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.
Dejan Stojanovic
He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.
Dejan Stojanovic
Literature is the only art in which the audience performs the score.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
What is literature, and why do I try to write about it? I don’t know. Likewise, I don’t know why I go on living, most of the time. But this not knowing is precisely what I want to preserve. As readers, the closest way we can engage with a literary work is to protect its indeterminacy; to return ourselves and it to a place that precludes complete recognition. Really, when I’m reading, all I want is to stand amazed in front of an unknown object at odds with the world.
M. John Harrison
We have learnt a lesson: words written in books, all of them, are lies. There are no exceptions. Words written on papers are all deceitful.If we put it in a more proper manner, counting non-fiction works, then things like documents, reports, and reviews that are recorded are also deceitful.There’s nothing but deceit.Don’t believe in the for-sale literature.
NisiOisiN
most common people oft he market-place much prefer light literature to improving books. The problem is, that so many romances contain slanderous anecdotes about sovereigns and ministers or cast aspersions upon man’s wives and daughters so that they are packed with sex and violence. Even worse are those writers of the breeze-and-moonlight school, who corrupt the young with pornography and filth. As for books of the beauty-and-talented-scholar type, a thousand are written to a single pattern and none escapes bordering on indecency. They are filled with allusions to handsome, talented young men and beautiful, refined girls in history; but in order to insert a couple of his own love poems, the author invents stereotyped heroes and heroines with the inevitable low character to make trouble between them like a clown in a play, and makes even the slave girls talk pedantic nonsense. So all these novels are full of contradictions and absurdly unnatural.
Cao Xueqin
Most people are afflicted with an inability to say what they see or think. They say there’s nothing more difficult than to define a spiral in words; they claim it is necessary to use the unliterary hand, twirling it in a steadily upward direction, so that human eyes will perceive the abstract figure immanent in wire spring and a certain type of staircase. But if we remember that to say is to renew, we will have no trouble defining a spiral; it’s a circle that rises without ever closing. I realize that most people would never dare to define it this way, for they suppose that defining is to say what others want us to say rather than what’s required for the definition. I’ll say it more accurately: a spiral is a potential circle that winds round as it rises, without ever completing itself. But no, the definition is still abstract. I’ll resort to the concrete, and all will become clear: a spiral is a snake without a snake, vertically wound around nothing. All literature is an attempt to make life real. All of us know, even when we act on what we don’t know, life is absolutely unreal in its directly real form; the country, the city and our ideas are absolutely fictitious things, the offspring of our complex sensation of our own selves. Impressions are incommunicable unless we make them literary. Children are particularly literary, for they say what they feel not what someone has taught them to feel. Once I heard a child, who wished to say that he was on the verge of tears, say not ‘I feel like crying’, which is what an adult, i.e., an idiot, would say but rather, ’ I feel like tears.’ And this phrase -so literary it would seem affected in a well-known poet, if he could ever invent it - decisively refers to the warm presence of tears about to burst from eyelids that feel the liquid bitterness. ‘I feel like tears’! The small child aptly defined his spiral. To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming- like worms when a rock is lifted - under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.
Fernando Pessoa
It was literature in its finest sense, since it made Unk courageous, watchful, and secretly free.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
We nurture the candle flames that show the way ahead. We are guerrillas of the word, unsung heroes breathing softly on the embers of the human mind, so that they might re-ignite the hearths around which we once found safe haven. The book is the Light and the Life.
Mark Cantrell
Writers more interested in literature than the truth ensure that they never come out with either thing — one reason that the word literature today sounds so fake, as if you were to insist on saying cuisine every time you meant food. Food, as in sustenance, is more like what we have in mind.
The editors n+1
AND where did the books go when the world turned against them? When the flames of wrath blackened their pages and erased the words, they fled to find solace and redemption in the dark places of the world.“They were exiled into darkness so their own light might one day return to illuminate the world. They went underground, literally and metaphorically, so that their haven became the hidden places far beneath the feet of their persecutors.“Thus was born the Incunabula: it was forged by fire and persecution, to preserve and protect until the book might rise, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of demise.
Mark Cantrell