Best 1516 quotes in «reflection quotes» category

Everything is reflected in both - outside (out there) and inside (in here) - marvel at it, experience, learn. The personal is also the universal, and the universal is also the personal.

Everything needs love… and everything you do or don’t do is a reflection of how you love you!

Every time I stare into those eyes of yours, they shine like a mirror with the sharp edges, piercing trough every bit of my reflection. It makes me feel like a child lost in the woods. And all of a sudden I hear a song somewhere and a shiver runs down my spine. A song that I have heard somewhere before. A song that makes all my demons dance forcefully at once.

Every time you feel the urge to reflect, do pushups instead.

Experiential reality is a pure reflection of your own state of being. You see what you believe. It is that simple.

Find a part of yourself hidden in the twilight.

Find the words that cause reflection in you. That is where true learning begins.

First impression is not the last reflection of a true friend, so if you are head over heels for someone who just bought you a cake, you'd better think twice before devouring your misery.

For a moment, frustration clouded his features. He inhaled deeply, and the clouds went away. “I miss people, you know? I miss actually living. I want to have a purpose in my life, but I don't. I'm just existing, and I don't know how long I can continue it.

Forgiveness is the greatest medicine ever created for the purification of the heart.

Freedom comes from self-knowledge, when we become aware of who we are and what we are here for.

For the liquor of Miss Amelia has a special quality of its own. It is clean and sharp on the tongue, but once down a man it glows inside him for a long time afterward. And that is not all. It is known that if a message is written with lemon juice on a clean sheet of paper there will be no sign of it. But if the paper is held for a moment to the fire then the letters turn brown and the meaning becomes clear. Imagine that the whisky is the fire and that the message is that which is known only in the soul of a man – then the worth of Miss Amelia's liquor can be understood. Things that have gone unnoticed, thoughts that have been harbored far back in the dark mind, are suddenly recognized and comprehended. A spinner who has thought only of the loom, the dinner pail, the bed, and then the loom again – this spinner might drink some on a Sunday and come across a marsh lily. And in his palm he might hold this flower, examining the golden dainty cup, and in him suddenly might come a sweetness keen as pain. A weaver might look up suddenly and see for the first time the cold, weird radiance of midnight January sky, and a deep fright at his own smallness stop his heart. Such things as these, then, happen when a man has drunk Miss Amelia's liquor. He may suffer, or he may be spent with joy – but the experience has shown the truth; he has warmed his soul and seen the message hidden there.

From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered.

Give me back my lips. I meant to give you a kiss but a kiss turned to a thousand, and a thousand to thousands, and now my lips have left with you. Give me back my hands. They only intended to caress you but they held tight and have forgotten even the very arms they belong to. Give me back my mind. Mind wasn’t even supposed to think of you but you forced yourself into dreams, and those dreams dreamed of your reality and now mind is mindless — less mine more yours. Give me back to myself. I miss my reflection and who I was before I met you. Before I eagerly and lovingly, stupidly and foolishly gave all of myself to you.

Gansey clucked at his bedraggled reflection in the dark-framed mirror hanging in the front hallway. Chainsaw eyed herself briefly before hiding on the other side of Ronan's neck; Adam did the same, but without the hiding-in-Ronan's-neck bit. Even Blue looked less fanciful that usual, the lighting rendering her lampshade dress and spiky hair as a melancholy Pierrot.

Gillman smiles, in the cold manner of an assassin. It's like looking in the mirror.

Good luck' is like the shadow of a tree, for some time it gives comfort to a traveler but it doesn't go ahead with a traveler.

God is like a mirror, consistent, stable, unchanging; reflecting His image of us, that is always changing.

God isn't here. God doesn't even know about this place

God’s Word transforms you into someone who reflects His glory.

Go look in the mirror and have a talk with your real boss

Great ideas emerges from useless fragments of thoughts.

-Grayson, você tem ideia do que acabou de me dizer, certo? -Explique. -Você praticamente acabou de admitir que a ama, olhe tudo o que aconteceu, tudo o que você fez e suportou por ela. Sempre por ela - falou. - Eu já sabia que você sentia algo por Sarah, pois isso está esculpido em sua face, mas eu não imaginava que fosse tudo tão... Intenso!

Has this version of me been lurking there all along, somewhere deep below the surface, biding its time, waiting for its chance to make an appearance?

Growth and empowerment requires reflection and facing the frightening, ugly, hard and unbearable reality.

Guilt was written all over his face. He could see it in his reflection.

Happiness gives you the freedom to enhance your ability to achieve success. Your choices in life are a direct reflection of your level of happiness. It's the sunshine for your soul that you need in order to grow

Havia me apaixonado pela ilusão de algo desconhecido

Having no resources within himself, he was compelled to be the copyist of many, and being such, he was forever the victim of inconsistency;

He captures memories because if he forgets them, it's as though they didn't happen.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror, but instead of the handsome, successful, owner of a billion-dollar corporation, he saw the remnants of the unpopular, socially-awkward, Magic The Gathering-obsessed nerd he left behind all those years ago. That gorgeous and psychotic minx on the fifteenth floor cracked his mirror, and he saw his true reflection.

He had done nothing on Christmas day, just wandered around outside in the frozen woods. Hard ground, chill winds and bare branches that looked like they'd been dipped in sugar. None of it seemed real, like walking around in a desolate dream, but one he didn't want to wake up from.

He finds he cannot think of the dying men at all. Into his mind instead strays the picture of More on the scaffold, seen through the veil of rain: his body, already dead, folding back neatly from the impact of the axe. The cardinal when he fell had no persecutor more relentless than Thomas More. Yet, he thinks, I did not hate him. I exercised my skills to the utmost to persuade him to reconcile with the king. And I thought I would win him, I really thought I would, for he was tenacious of the world, tenacious of his person, and had a good deal to live for. In the end he was his own murderer. He wrote and wrote and he talked and talked, then suddenly at a stroke he cancelled himself. If ever a man came close to beheading himself, Thomas More was that man.

He felt the withering of something, the way risk was increasingly eliminated, replaced with a bland new world where the viewing of food preparation would be felt to be more than the reading of poetry; where excitement would come from paying for a soup made out of foraged grass. He had eaten soup made out of foraged grass in the camps; he preferred food.

How could you cleanse yourself if you couldn’t forget?

Hello! Look at me! I am your reflection.

He looked at the road quite a lot now. Sometimes the white line was solid, sometimes it was broken, and sometimes it was double, like streetcar tracks. He wondered how people could ride over this road all the other days of the year and not see the pattern of life and death in that white paint? Or did they see, after all?

Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise.

Her beauty is laced in her strength and interwoven through her flaws. She embodies perfection.

Her sword weighed heavily in her hand. She stared at the polished blade, wondering if its reflection would be the last sight she ever caught of herself. Would she die as Ping, the Fa son she'd made up so she could join the army in her father's place? If she died here, in the middle of this snow-covered mountain pass, she'd never see her father or her family again. Mulan swallowed hard. Who would believe that only a few months ago, her biggest concern had been impressing the Matchmaker? She could barely remember the girl she'd been back then. She'd worn layer upon layer of silk, not plates of armor, her waist cinched tightly with a satin sash instead of sore from carrying a belt of weapons. Her lips had been painted with rouge instead of chapped from cold and lack of water, her lashes highlighted with coal that she now could only dream of using to fuel a fire for warmth. How far she'd come from that girl to who she was now: a soldier in the Imperial army. Maybe serving her country as a warrior was truer to her heart than being a bride. Yet when she saw her reflection in her sword, she knew she was still pretending to be someone else.

Her reflection's hair was short, but she wore a simple violet robe tied at the waist with a blue sash. At her hip was her father's sword, and tucked in her hair- a blossom from their family's cherry tree. Mulan knelt and lowered her fingers to the glass. It rippled at her touch. "This one. This is me." A beat. Are you sure? asked the girl in the mirror. "Yes," said Mulan firmly. "It doesn't matter whether I'm a girl dressed like a bride, or a girl dressed like a soldier. I know my heart." Mulan flattened her hand against the glass, facing her reflection. Together, they said, "I am Fa Mulan, a girl who would sacrifice her life for her family and for China. I am a girl who journeyed into the Underworld to save her friend from dying. I am a girl who has fought battle after battle to finally recognize herself in the mirror. And now I do.

He wasn't a whole person any longer, but only half of something not yet made.

Hide in the morrow. No one will look for you there.

Hope is when we have a beautiful vision of something and a positive emotion to go along with it. When our world comes crashing down, when we are trapped in a deep, dark, despairing hopelessness, we need a bigger perspective. Hope comes when we reflect on all that we hold dear and true, when we acknowledge a higher power, when we acknowledge God in our lives and begin to see what He has planned for our lives.

How I look to you is the reflection of how you look at me.

How many little kids were being orphaned or killed, right that minute, while I was sitting there watching TV?

Humans' eyes cannot take in information when there is zero light reflecting back

her reflection captivates me her darkness teaches me her essence fills me her light calms me her soul caresses me... she is my fascination she is is my art she is my glow she is my love she is my dance

He said that the music—its order and precision—helped him find the patterns in things—the way through the confusion of events and opinions to direction, to order, and beyond, to inspiration.

He who does not see the light in others does not see the light in himself.