Best 3011 quotes in «silence quotes» category

To be heard today you need to be loud since silence is now imitation gold.

To be wise means to know when to stay silent.

To break the silence the old man said the first thing that came to his mind: "Loneliness is a type of violence.

Today words curve around my vision, Stumbling from my parched core To soak again those strands of silence.

To feeling no shame in fear, no doubt in survival, and no silence in anger.

To the imaginative, it is always something of an adventure to walk down a pleached alley. You enter boldly enough, but soon you find yourself wishing you had stayed outside — it is not air that you are breathing, but silence, the almost palpable silence of trees. And is the only exit that small round hole in the distance? Why, you will never be able to squeeze through that! You must turn back ... too late! The spacious portal by which you entered has in its turn shrunk to a small round hole.

To think is to have doubt....yet even thinking will bring you to "no thought"....eventually.

Truth for anyone is a very complex thing. For a writer, what you leave out says as much as those things you include. What lies beyond the margin of the text? The photographer frames the shot; writers frame their world. Mrs Winterson objected to what I had put in, but it seemed to me that what I had left out was the story’s silent twin. There are so many things that we can’t say, because they are too painful. We hope that the things we can say will soothe the rest, or appease it in some way. Stories are compensatory. The world is unfair, unjust, unknowable, out of control. When we tell a story we exercise control, but in such a way as to leave a gap, an opening. It is a version, but never the final one. And perhaps we hope that the silences will be heard by someone else, and the story can continue, can be retold. When we write we offer the silence as much as the story. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken. Mrs Winterson would have preferred it if I had been silent. Do you remember the story of Philomel who is raped and then has her tongue ripped out by the rapist so that she can never tell? I believe in fiction and the power of stories because that way we speak in tongues. We are not silenced. All of us, when in deep trauma, find we hesitate, we stammer; there are long pauses in our speech. The thing is stuck. We get our language back through the language of others. We can turn to the poem. We can open the book. Somebody has been there for us and deep-dived the words. I needed words because unhappy families are conspiracies of silence. The one who breaks the silence is never forgiven. He or she has to learn to forgive him or herself.

Truth is the offspring of silence and meditation. I keep the subject constantly before me and wait 'til the first dawnings open slowly, by little and little, into a full and clear light.

—Tú hablas sin palabras. Todos estamos siempre hablando sin palabras. —¿Y para qué valen las palabras, entonces? —No valen para mucho, casi nunca. La mayor parte de las veces, únicamente para ocultar aquello que realmente quieres decir, o algo que quieres saber.

Try to relax. Sometimes the best offense is a good defense.

Tut, tut! I have often admonished my pupils to count ten before speaking. Were I you, Mr. Philander, I should count at least a thousand, and then maintain a discreet silence.

Two friends raised their heads up to the sky on a dark evening. -Look at the stars. --Let us make a wish. They each took a moment of silence. -What did you wish for? --For you to have peace with your wish.

Ultimately, our questions must emerge not from mental categories, but from deep within the heart. They must rise to the surface of our beings as we sit in silence, so that they are not just the old questions which we raise whenever we have nothing else to talk about or just for the sake of argument. They need to be the questions which make a difference in our lives.

Under all speech that is good for anything there lies a silence that is better.

Un livre est un peu de silence entre les mains du lecteur. Celui qui écrit calme. Celui qui le lit ne rompt pas le silence.

Until we understand what the land is, we are at odds with everything we touch. And to come to that understanding it is necessary, even now, to leave the regions of our conquest - the cleared fields, the towns and cities, the highways - and re-enter the woods. For only there can a man encounter the silence and the darkness of his own absence. Only in this silence and darkness can he recover the sense of the world's longevity, of its ability to thrive without him, of his inferiority to it and his dependence on it. Perhaps then, having heard that silence and seen that darkness, he will grow humble before the place and begin to take it in - to learn from it what it is. As its sounds come into his hearing, and its lights and colors come into his vision, and its odors come into his nostrils, then he may come into its presence as he never has before, and he will arrive in his place and will want to remain. His life will grow out of the ground like the other lives of the place, and take its place among them. He will be with them - neither ignorant of them, nor indifferent to them, nor against them - and so at last he will grow to be native-born. That is, he must reenter the silence and the darkness, and be born again. (pg. 27, "A Native Hill")

Usually when I enter a bookstore, I feel immediately calm. Bookstores are, for me, what churches are for other people. My breath gets slower and deeper as I peruse the shelves. I believe that books contain messages I am meant to receive. I’m not normally superstitious, but I’ve even had books fall from shelves and land at my feet. Books are my missives from the universe.

Valentine reminds us that to be fully human is to be both a story teller and a story dweller." --- Christina Meldrum, author of Madapple and Amaryllis in Blueberry

Vivemos cercados de palavras vãs, condenados a uma civilização que teme o silêncio. Fala-se muito para dizer bem pouco. Jornais, revistas, TV, outdoors, telefone, correio eletrônico - há demasiado palavrório. E sabemos todos que não se dá valor ao que se abusa.

V. Night Song At Amafi I asked the heaven of stars What I should give my love– It answered me with silence, Silence above. I asked the darkened sea Down where the fishers go– It answered me with silence, Silence below. Oh, I could give him weeping, Or I could give him song– But how can I give silence My whole life long?

Volumes are spoken when nothing is being said.

Walter Mignolo terms and articulates _critical cosmopolitanism, juxtaposing it with globalization, which is a process of "the homogeneity of the planet from above––economically, politically and culturally." Although _globalization from below_ is to counter _globalization from above_ from the experience and perspective of those who suffer from the consequences of _globalization from above_, cosmopolitanism differs, according to Mignolo, form these two types of globalization. Mignolo defines globalization as 'a set of designs to manage the world,' and cosmopolitanism as 'a set of projects toward planetary conviviality

Walk with me now into this very bright night, and revere with me in silence what must be God-given and what is surely God-taken.

We are in the era of the silent crimes against humanity.

We are pushed towards eternal silence from the moment we are born. So when sadness tries to stifle us, we must not give in. We must keep whispering.

We both keep quiet. Again. Today just seems like a day for it. It’s easier that way. You don’t have to say things you don’t want to say because once the words are out, you’ll have to confront them. Confront your insecurities. Confront your fears. Confront yourself. I think that one, the last one, is the hardest.

We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid.

We didn't talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely.

We don't have to go back to my place, Angel. I can take you home, if that's what you want. Or, if you decide you want to sleep at my place, on opposite sides of my bedroom with a Do Not Cross line drawn down the middle, I'll do it. I won't like it, but I'll do it.

We fall back into silence. I look around XO Café and notice that chatter happens mostly at tables where the diners are young and hip. The older couples, the ones sporting wedding bands that wink with their silverware, eat without the pepper of conversation. Is it because they are so comfortable, they already know what the other is thinking? Or is it because after a certain point, there is simply nothing left to say?

We only realize what happiness is about, after it has slammed the door to our inattention; and killing silence has deafened the tunefulness of our life. ("Happy days are back again")

We refuse to turn off our computers, turn off our phones, log off Facebook, and just sit in silence, because in those moments we might actually have to face up to who we really are. We fear silence like it's an invisible monster, gnawing at us, ripping us open, and showing us our dissatisfaction. Silence is terrifying.

We sat in silence, letting the green in the air heal what it could.

We sat and drank in silence. It was something I appreciated about Jesse. He didn't feel the need to fill every moment with talk or some sort of silly exchange.

We sit, silent, the comfortable way only good friends can sit.

We sit for a long time without talking and watch the rain until our tea goes cold, and I am enormously, unspeakably glad to have found someone I can be silent with.

We sit in silence for a minute. Thinking about the freedom we don't have and the future we can't control.

We suffer in silence.

To feel free, create a fog around yourself! And how can you do this? Be silent! When you are silent, people will not notice you much! You will be invisible, you will be inside the fog!

To heal our world we must be silent; willing to listen to the roars of the wounded. We must teach eachother how to feel, only than can an entire nation grow in peace, as the war within will slowly diminish.

To silence the love, it takes a deaf. (Pour taire l'amour, - Il faut un sourd)

To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To you, it is much easier to not say a word. To me, I choke on my words if I do not say them. What truly hurts me is that you know that your silence infects a storm in my mind yet you choose it oh so easily.

Truth cannot be conveyed through words. Truth can only be known through silence. When knowing truth, it becomes a responsibility to share it. Through sharing truth, our truth will become deeper. If people are spiritually ripe to listen to truth, it is good. If people are not ripe to listen to truth, it is also good. If people are ready to understand truth, it is good. If they are not ready to understand truth, it is also good. If people are reday to understand silence, it is good. If people are not ready to understand silence, it is also good.

We all were silent for a reason, maybe our hearts were talking to us, and it is a human behavior whenever someone is in a crisis or something great is happening, our hearts speaks to us. More and more, only that time because we are too obsessed to use our brains after every work every day that listening to heart becomes secondary

We are all in the era that will be remembered by historians as the 'Silent Corporate Government War On Humanity

We become equally responsible for the actions of others the instant we become conscious of what they are doing wrong but remain silent because we think it is right.

We fell in love and heard thousands of words in every silence between us. Then we fell apart and heard only silence in thousands of words we spoke to each other.

Well then, he said. What are you doing here? I am not sure. Liberty I suppose. I lived so long under constraints. You wonder why I grub about in the mud - it's what I remember from childhood. Barely ever wearing shoes - picking gorse for cordial, watching the ponds boiling with frogs. And then there was Michael, and he was - civilised. He would pave over every bit of woodland, have every sparrow mounted on a plinth. And he had me mounted on a plinth. My waist pinched, my hair burned into curls, the colour on my face painted out, then painted in again. And now I'm free to sink back into the earth if I like - to let myself grow over with moss and lichen. Perhaps you're appalled to think we are no higher than the animals, or at least, if we are, only one rung further up the ladder. But no, no - it has given me liberty. No other animal abides by rules - why then must we?