Best 90 quotes in «journal quotes» category

The power of writing is phenomenal.

The power of the pen is landmark of life.

There’s more, Anna. When we first got to California,” she says, “you asked me if I remembered your birthday party.” I nod, picking at a thread on her comforter. “I did remember. Matt was acting like such a space cadet that night after we got home – like he was floating. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out, but of all the things that he could have been thinking about, you were the last – I mean, my mind just didn’t even go there. You were like our sister.” “But I–” “Wait – let me get this out.” She looks at me hard, her broken wing eyebrow trembling to keep the tears back. “After I brushed my teeth, I walked into his room. He was sitting on his bed, playing with that blue glass necklace he always wore, a big smile on his face. Remember the necklace?” The necklace. “Of course.” “I asked him what was so funny. He jumped a little, not knowing I’d been watching him smile there like a goofy little kid. He said it was nothing – just that he had fun at the party. And I believed him, all the way up until the day I read your journal. That’s when it all made sense. All the times he’d ask me about who you liked at school, or who wanted to take you to whatever dance.” She’s quiet as I digest her story, putting the pieces together to form a complete whole from the missing half that’s haunted me since that night – how did he really feel about me? Was it just one stupid moment, perpetuated a little too long, only to be forgotten as quickly as it came? As soon as he went away to school? “I was in love with him forever – since I was, like, ten,” I confess. “Yeah,” she says. “You both were in love. I know that now. We were all so close, you know? I just didn’t see it coming until I read your – I’m sorry, Anna.” I close my eyes, fighting back the image of her hand on my journal. “It’s okay.

There were times, in the beginning, when I used my journal as a wailing wall, but I learned not to immortalize the darkness. Rereading it was counterproductive. What I needed was a place in which to collect the light.

They're just clothes,' she remembered writing down in the leafy, thin pages of her journal. 'And the warmth of them no longer comforts you nor belongs to you. They're just fabric without an owner. A familiarity that has faded and an attachment that no longer has a name, just a brand mark stitched into the seams.' She remembered her hand flowing quickly and purposefully across the page as her eyes shifted from the journal to the sweater to the journal again. 'And when I slip them over my head. I smell not your fragrance and feel no longer the emptiness you left behind. I see me in a mirror, with a sweater on. And I look as radiant and beautiful, and broken, and whole, and relentlessly happy as you left me.

These empty pages are your future, soon to become your past. T will read the most personal tale you shall ever find in a book.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

The smell of cigarette smoke in the air in a tavern that changes names often, a bar cursed because of a girl who died of a drug overdose in the basement, we put a few coins in the jukebox; chose “Angel Band” by Johnny Cash and sat down at the bar, ordered a soda, you wanted a whiskey on the rocks. We saw the coal miner who moved here from West Virginia knocking back liquor like I drink sweet tea. No one asked why he was so solemn today. It was warm. It was relatively quiet. To anyone else, this place could feel sinister. But to us, it was freedom. It was a hiding place. No one was ever here long enough to know us. And we liked it that way.

We ask ourselves: have we made progress? We are almost never aware of it. Only with effort and discipline do we become fully conscious. If we keep a journal, now and then we are startled when we peruse past entries. Worries, fears, preoccupations of the previous year seem to have evanesced. The greatest terrors and strongest urgencies of five years ago now surprise, embarrass, or encourage us. Was this me? Why was it that I could not gauge it as it was lived?

Until you take a pen to write, then you will see the miracle of writing.

We will read books together inside the blanket and stay warm. And keep writing poetry in our respective journals. Time will fly but we will still remain inside the blanket forever.

We were always eating expired things. Milk, bread, biscuits, cake. We forgot about them as they sat around the house and just as they had gone bad, we put them in our mouths. Chocolates I brought back with me from Australia, cheeses in last year's Christmas hamper, juice from the last time someone decided to go grocery shopping. We didn't always realize they tasted funny – not everything curdles and a two-month-old orange can be just as sweet. When we did, it was usually too late. Sometimes it wasn't. We finished what we had started anyway.

we must bring our own light to the darkness.

Write a daily gratitude.

What you believe you deserve is what you get in life. Change your beliefs and your life transforms.

What a comfort is this journal. I tell myself to myself and throw the burden on my book and feel relieved.

Write your dreams in journal,note book, card or on a cork. When you pen down your dreams, an a inner strength and divine power is activated for your to work towards the fulfillment of your dreams.

Write down your goals and let it be your guidepost.

Every great thinker keeps a journal, you know.

You ought to stop everything and write the sacred-words as its flashes in your mind.

You ought to write down your goals. It serves as a guidepost and gives strength for purposeful action.

You ought to write grateful gratitude every day

Your diary should be a nepenthe.

Without written goals, we fail to plan and to run with single-minded purpose.

If this is what you came for, then I didn't send for you. Kafka (note to himself in journal)

Fundamentally, diaries are about loneliness.

I keep all my poems in my journals and lock them away. They are the start of everything.

As useful as websites and journals are, there's real value in books, too.

For in our family an experience was not finished, not truly experienced, unless written down or shared with another.

I have decided to keep a full journal, in the hope that my life will perhaps seem more interesting when it is written down.

I have stacks and stacks of journals. I'll change the names if I ever decide to publish them.

I love writing. I've always written journals. I loved writing the book on living alone.

In the journal I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself.

I've always been a journal-keeper. I've always tried to write about how I'm experiencing life, and my feelings and thoughts.

I love playing. The keyboard is my journal.

I wrote Report from the Interior was that after I finished Winter Journal, I took a pause, and I realized there was more I wanted to say.

I used to love writing in my journal.

Journalism is writing that first appears in any periodic journal.

Keeping a journal implies hope.

Keeping a journal is like taking good care of one’s heart.

I suffered from a quite severe speech impediment when I was young, and keeping a journal was part of the therapy.

My body is my journal, and my tattoos are my story.

My own habit had always been to write about the things that ticked me off in a given day. If I kept a journal at all, I kept it to vent.

There are certain things that make me relax, like writing my journal. That's the only time that I'm relaxing. It's the only time I really get to examine myself.

My journal is my life's companion.

All experiences are stories to be told and must be written.

Advice to explorers everywhere: if you would like to recieve due credit for your discoveries, keep a detailed account of your journeys as Columbus did. On Septemeber 28, 1492, after four weeks at sea, he writes: Dear diary...I means journal. Yes, dear journal. That's what I meant to say. Whew. Anyway, we have yet to discover America, and the crew has become increasingly rebellious. I have decided to turn back if we have not spotted it by Columbus Day. Will write again later if not killed by crew. P.S. Last night's buffet was fabulous, the ice sculptures magnificent.

Who or what inspires you?" "I must admit that I often read my own articles in scientific journals and inspire myself.

All night, after the exhausting games of canasta, we would look over the immense sea, full of white-flecked and green reflections, the two of us leaning side by side on the railing, each of us far away, flying in his own aircraft to the stratospheric regions of his own dreams. There we understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and seas of the world. Always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner but only ever faintly--not setting down roots in any land or staying long enough to see the substratum of things the outer limits would suffice.

Any experience, which is not written, will be lost in time. Rich literature is lost forever.