Eileen Kritter > Eileen's Quotes

“¡Don’t tell me what to think, niña malcriada! And, you—” Don Gabriel pointed at Marco, “Stop filling my daughter’s head with nonsense.”
― Margarita Barresi, A Delicate Marriage

“Then Raya saw Rebecca West, the fourteen-year-old who only saved her own life by testifying against her mother, and then she saw her own face reflected in these girls – a swirl of chance, and life and sorrow.”
― Sara Pascoe, Being a Witch, and Other Things I Didn't Ask For

“The subject of quantum physics is identifying the smallest parts of an entity and understanding its nature and its part in the whole of existence. In every case we come to the understanding that there is no objective world that we perceive, except for the conceptions inside of our minds. We are all collectively dreaming together the empirical realm. We collectively hold the fundamental energies in the frequencies of the electromagnetic wave patterns that we perceive. The quality of our experience is created in our consciousness.”
― Kenneth Schmitt, Quantum Energetics and Spirituality Volume 1: Aligning with Universal Consciousness

“The Black Prince is entombed at Canterbury Cathedral. His effigy reads: “Such as thou art, sometimes was I, Such as I am, such thou shalt be, I thought little on hour of death, So long as I enjoyed breath, On earth I had great riches, Land, houses, great treasure, Horses money and gold, But now a wretched captive am I, Deep in the ground, lo I lie, My beauty great, is all quite gone, My flesh is wasted to the bone.”
― Michael G. Kramer, Isabella Warrior Queen

“Bias in the workplace is a form of tribalism – you’re either in or out”
― Hanna Hasl-Kelchner, Seeking Fairness at Work: Cracking the New Code of Greater Employee Engagement, Retention & Satisfaction

“The steps leading to the porch looked worn, cracked, and unpainted, ready for a nice hot fire.”
― Gabriel F.W. Koch, Death Leaves a Shadow

“Every now and then, I’d meet a guy and think that we were getting along great, and suddenly I’d stop hearing from him. Not only did he stop calling, but if I happened to bump into him sometime later he always acted like I had the plague. I didn’t understand it. I still don’t. And it bothered me. It hurt me. With time, it got harder and harder to keep blaming the guys, and I eventually came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with me. That maybe I was simply meant to live my life alone.”
― Nicholas Sparks, The Lucky One

“Là in Kakania, in quello Stato incompreso, che ormai non esiste più e che in tante cose fu un modello ingiustamente sottovalutato, c’era anche velocità, ma non troppa. Quando si era all’estero e si ripensava a questo paese, sorgeva davanti agli occhi il ricordo di quelle sue strade bianche, larghe e comode, risalenti al tempo delle marce a piedi e dei postali, strade che si diramavano in tutte le direzioni, come le vie di trasmissione del regolamento, come i nastri del traliccio chiaro nelle uniformi dei soldati, e che cingevano le province con il braccio bianco-cartaceo dell’amministrazione. E che province! Ghiacciai e mari, il Carso e i campi di grano della Boemia, notti sull’Adriatico percorse dallo stridio inquieto dei grilli, e villaggi slovacchi dove il fumo usciva dai camini come da narici camuse e il villaggio se ne stava rannicchiato tra due collinette, quasi che la terra avesse dischiuso un poco le labbra per riscaldare il suo bambino. Naturalmente su quelle strade si incontravano anche automobili; ma non troppe. Ci si preparava anche là alla conquista dell’aria; ma senza eccedere in solerzia. Di quando in quando si faceva partire una nave per il Sudamerica o per l’Estremo Oriente; ma non troppo spesso. Non si ambiva al dominio del mondo, né dal punto di vista economico né da quello politico; si era al centro dell’Europa, dove si intersecano gli antichi assi del mondo; le parole “colonia” e “oltremare” risuonavano ancora come un qualcosa di remoto e di non sperimentato. Si viveva nel lusso, ma di certo non con l’estrema raffinatezza dei francesi. Si praticava lo sport, ma non da forsennati come gli anglosassoni. Si spendevano somme ingenti per l’esercito, ma solo quel tanto che bastava per esser certi di rimanere la penultima delle grandi potenze. Anche la capitale, pur essendo una delle città più grandi del mondo, era un po’ più piccola di tutte le altre, ma notevolmente più grande di quanto lo siano di solito le grandi città. E l’amministrazione di questo paese, illuminata, discreta, volta a smussare prudentemente tutti gli spigoli, era nelle mani della migliore burocrazia d’Europa, alla quale si poteva rimproverare un solo difetto: ritenere saccenteria e presunzione il genio e la geniale intraprendenza dei privati che non fossero legittimati a ciò dal privilegio di alti natali o di un incarico statale. E d’altronde, c’è forse qualcuno cui piaccia farsi comandare da chi non è autorizzato? In Kakania, poi, un genio passava sempre per uno sciocco, ma a differenza di quel che capitava dalle altre parti, non succedeva mai che uno sciocco passasse per un genio.”
― Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualities

“When the last autumn of Dickens's life was over, he continued to work through his final winter and into spring. This is how all of us writers give away the days and years and decades of our lives in exchange for stacks of paper with scratches and squiggles on them. And when Death calls, how many of us would trade all those pages, all that squandered lifetime-worth of painfully achieved scratches and squiggles, for just one more day, one more fully lived and experienced day? And what price would we writers pay for that one extra day spent with those we ignored while we were locked away scratching and squiggling in our arrogant years of solipsistic isolation?

Would we trade all those pages for a single hour? Or all of our books for one real minute?”
― Dan Simmons, Drood

“People of limited intelligence are fond of talking about "these days," imagining that they have discovered and appraised the peculiarities of "these days" and that human nature changes with the times.”
― Leo Tolstoy

“Herr Bosch was purple nosed; the oxygen which by rights belonged to the veins of his face had for years gone to feed the sharp blue flame of all that liquor.”
― Thomas Keneally, Schindler's List