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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #inspiratio
We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to desers, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some-more spectacularly-squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer God. Their solitude is a self-moritification by which they do penance. They act in the belief that they are living a life pleasing to God. Or they wait months, years, for their solitude to be broken by some divine message that they hope then speedily to broadcast among mankind. Grenouille's case was nothing of the sort. There was not the least notion of God in his head. He was not doing penance or wating for some supernatural inspiration. He had withdrawn solely for his own pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid. He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating-and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake lived in the wide world outside. ↗
Quiero esperar en silencio la séptima ola. Si, aquí cuentan la historia indómita de la séptima ola. Las primeras seis son previsibles y equilibradas. Se condicionan unas a otras, no deparan sorpresas. Mantienen la continuidad. Pero, !cuidado con la séptima ola¡ La séptima es imprevisible. Durante mucho tiempo pasa inadvertida, participa en el monótono proceso, se adapta a sus predecesoras. Pero a veces estalla. Siempre ella, siempre la séptima. Porque es despreocupada, inocente, rebelde, barre con todo, lo cambia todo. Para ella no existe el antes, solo el ahora. Y después todo es distinto. ¿Mejor o peor? Eso solo pueden decirlo quienes estuvieron arrastrados por ella, quienes tuvieron el coraje de enfrentarla, de dejarse cautivar... ↗
هل أصبحت حكايه رجل مستقيم من الطرائف النادره في هذا العصر بحيث تحتل الصفحات الاولي في الجرائد وتوضع علي رووس الاعمده وتلفت اليها الانظار ويتحاكي بها الناس علي انها من العجائب والغرائب.. فهذا رجل يرد حافظه نقود بها بضعه الوف من الدولارات عثر عليها في الطريق العام ويعيدها الي صاحبها ويرفض ان ياخذ مكافاه ولا ينتظر ثنائ من احد ولا يريد احدا ان يكتب عنه.. ويمضي الي حال سبيله يلملم اطراف جلبابه القديم ويختفي عن الانظار.. من اي عالم جاء هذا الرجل.. ومن اي كوكب هبط.. ومن اي زمن من الازمان البائده نزل علينا.. وهل يعود الي بلده في مركبه فضائيه؟؟ انه جنس من الاجناس البشريه البائده بلاشك نقرا عنه في الكتب القديمه وفي قصص الاطفال.. ونعلم يقينا انه انقرض مثل الديناصورات التي انقرضت وانه لم يتبق منه الا هذه الحفريه النادره. ورغم ان صوت الدين الان عال جدا في الميكروفونات وفي خطب المساجد.. والمسابح نراها تجلجل في كل يد.. ورغم ان اكثر اللحي طالت وارتفع رصيد المواطن العادي من العمرات ومن زياره الرسول ومن الطواف حول الكعبه ومن ترديد الادعيه.. الا ان الدين نفسه غير موجود.. الدين بمعني الامانه والاستقامه والصلاح والعمل النافع وطهاره اليد ونقاء الضمير والزهد في الدنيا وتقوي الله والعمل للاخره.. فهذه الاخلاق اصبحت شيئا نادرا.. والجماعات الدينيه تشغل نفسها بمسائل اخري مثل القائ قنابل المسامير وقتل السياح في مذبحه الاقصر لانهم كفره( رغم ان هذه الجماعات الدينيه تعيش في انجلترا وفي امريكا تحت وصايه وحمايه المخابرات الاجنبيه وينفق عليها الـ CIA وهي تنفذ لهذه المخابرات خططها الاستعماريه بمنتهي الدقه والامانه).. ما علاقه كل هذا بالاسلام.. وما الخدمه التي يقدمونها.. تلك فزوره اخري في هذا العصر العجيب المليئ بالفوازير والمتناقضات ومن هو الاله المعبود في هذا الزمان؟!! انه ليس الله قطعا انه الدولار.. ربما انه الدنيا.. رغم كل هذه اللحي الطويله واسفار الحج والعمره والمساجد المزخرفه التي تطاول السمائ.. وهو شيطان النفس الذي يزين للنفس كل ما تهوي في جميع الاحوال.. وما اكثر الذين يتصورون انهم يعبدون الله وهم ابعد ما يكونون عنه.. وقد اقنع كل واحد منهم نفسه واقنعه شيطانه بانه يعمل لله وللرسول ولليوم الاخر وانه المسلم الحق وليس له من الاسلام الا الاسم.. وقد فعل من قبلهم القرامطه نفس الشيئ فهدموا الكعبه وقتلوا الحجيج وسرقوا الحجر الاسود وظنوا انهم يخدمون الدين.. والجماعات الدينيه الجديده يسمونها اليوم بجماعات الافغان لانها بدات في اف ↗
When you win, you don't examine it very much, except to congratulate yourself. You easily, and wrongly, assume it has something to do with your rare qualities as a person. But winning only measures how hard you've worked and how physically talented you are; it doesn't particularly define you beyond those characteristics. Losing on the other hand, really does say something about who you are. Among other things it measures are: do you blame others, or do you own the loss? Do you analyze your failure, or just complain about bad luck? If you're willing to examine failure, and to look not just at your outward physical performance, but your internal workings, too, losing can be valuable. How you behave in those moments can perhaps be more self-defining than winning could ever be. Sometimes losing shows you for who you really are. ↗
I looked long and hard for the paper roses! I found the reddest red ribbon, and a little golden card! We were all there together, many of us, in the same place; but I was the only one who found the paper roses, the only one who chose the reddest red ribbon, and the only one who topped off with a golden card. And so I learned that if people are unhappy, it is only because they don't know how to look for the paper roses, they don't see the reddest red ribbon, and they don't like the little golden cards. We are all in the same wrap-shoppe in this life. But we are different. Because some of us are looking for the paper roses, choosing the reddest red ribbon, and picking up the little golden cards. ↗
#golden-cards #happiness #inspiration #inspirational #inspirational-life
. . . [O]nce we begin to feel deeply all the aspects of our lives, we begin to demand from ourselves and from our life-pursuits that they feel in accordance with that joy which we know ourselves to be capable of. Our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives." "The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling." "Of course, women so empowered are dangerous. So we are taught to separate the erotic from most vital areas of our lives other than sex. ↗
Tonight, I say to the American people, to Democrats and Republicans and Independents across this great land: enough! This moment, this election is our chance to keep, in the 21st century, the American promise alive. Because next week, in Minnesota, the same party that brought you two terms of George Bush and Dick Cheney will ask this country for a third. And we are here because we love this country too much to let the next four years look like the last eight. On Nov. 4, we must stand up and say: "Eight is enough. ↗
Long before we even lose our lives, we lose our souls. Tragic but true. Some carry on—willing to make the sacrifices, putting what is perceived as important before anything else. Some tread into the dark—wasting moments of grace, letting themselves suffer from their own decisions or the other’s domination. Some continue to love, give too much, and not leave even a little love for themselves. ↗
If you only write when you’re inspired you may be a fairly decent poet, but you’ll never be a novelist because you’re going to have to make your word count today and those words aren’t going to wait for you whether you’re inspired or not. You have to write when you’re not inspired. And you have to write the scenes that don’t inspire you. And the weird thing is that six months later, a year later, you’ll look back at them and you can’t remember which scenes you wrote when you were inspired and which scenes you just wrote because they had to be written next. The process of writing can be magical. … Mostly it’s a process of putting one word after another. ↗
He took her by the hand and led her out of the control room and into a little side room. There, amid a lot of sculpting paraphernalia, was her statue. The statue from the museum. The statue of Fortuna. New and gleaming. Rose gaped. 'But I never posed for this.' 'No need,' said the Doctor, patting it on the arm -- an arm which still had a hand attached. 'What d'you mean?' 'I mean,' he explained, 'that you won't have to pose for it. As Mickey said -' the Doctor smiled to himself - 'it was sculpted by someone who knew you pretty well.' He ran a hand through his hair and looked as though he was expecting applause. Rose walked round the statue. 'Is my bum really that--' 'Yes,' the Doctor interrupted testily. 'This statue is accurate in every detail. Bum. Arms. Legs. Nose. Broken fingernail on your right hand.' * * * Rose stood looking at the statue for a bit longer. 'It is perfect,' she said at last. 'I was inspired.' They smiled at each other. All was right with the world again. ↗
