Best 119 quotes in «diary quotes» category

It's my diary", she'd explained. "Every mark I've had drawn on my skin connects me to where and who I've been- so I never forget who I am and how I got here."There was humour in the smile she offered him. "And you know what the real beauty of it is?" Hank had shaken his head. "Nobody can take it away.

It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness

It's strange. When I put something incomprehensible into a picture, it's usually because the form and colour interest me and because it just happens to fit in. Thwn my friends come along : 'What is that suppose to mean _' And they rack their brains for an interpretation, finding so many ingenious explanations that I feel quite proud of all the unarticulated ideas concealed in my pictures." - Fernand Khnopff to Alma Mahler, while walking in the Prater in Vienna, from her diary July 1899

I use my friends rather as giglamps : There's another field I see: by your light. Over there's a hill. I widen my landscape.

I want to raise up the magic world all round me and live strongly and quietly there.

I was one of those unfortunates adopted by upper middle-class professionals and nurtured in an environment of learning, art and a socio-religious culture steeped in more than 2000 years of Talmudic tradition. Not everyone is lucky enough to have been raised in a whiskey tango trailer park by a bow-legged female whose sole qualification for motherhood is a womb that happened to catch a sperm of a passing truck driver.

Love is beyond space and time. It reaches out to the heart of the person that you are missing. Love binds two souls and not two bodies.

Loneliness is the diary keeper’s lover. It is not narcissism that takes them to their desk every day. And who “keeps” whom, after all? The diary is demanding; it imposes its routine; it must be chored the way one must milk a cow; and it alters your attitude toward life, which is lived, finally, only in order that it may makes it way to the private page. [From "Fifty Literary Pillars", p.35]

… my joints ache with fatigue, my dried up body trembles toward its own destruction in turmoils of which I dare not become fully conscious, in my head are astonishing convulsions.

Maybe we choose to stay in a constant state of ignorance as a protective instinct — maybe I was just in denial. I just don’t get how you can be completely in love with someone one day, and then all of a sudden you just aren’t. I will never forget that day...the day where I became numb.

Mrs. Palmer is a teacher so naturally I assumed she would never do anything good for me.

My journal has become a paper mirror, a topographic map to my mind. It is where I go to sort out confusion and decipher the invisible.

Occasionally a particular word or phrase in a letter or diary has sparked an entire plot - like an echo from history, still very alive.

Nem, látszólag mindenem megvan, kivéve, hogy nincs barátnőm. Pajtásaimmal szórakozni szoktam, de csak hétköznapi dolgokról esik szó közöttünk. Baj, hogy senki iránt se melegszem fel. Lehet, hogy bennem van a hiba, amiért nincs bizalmas barátom. Ez biztosan így van, sajnos, nem tudok rajta változtatni.

Obituaries were the final diary page of life lived, whether pleasant or tragic, full or barren.

Secanja su previse bitna. Bila dobra ili losa, pamtite ih.

p2 I'd seen a photo of the actual red and white checked notebook that was Anne [Frank]'s first diary. I longed to own a similar notebook. Stationery was pretty dire back in the late fifties and early sixties. There was no such thing as Paperchase. I walked round and round the stationery counter in Woolworths and spent most of my pocket money on notebooks, but they weren't strong on variety. You could have shiny red sixpenny notebooks, lined inside, with strange maths details about rods and poles and perches on the back. (I never found out what they were!) Then you could have shiny blue sixpenny notebooks. That was your lot. I was enchanted to read in Dodie Smith's novel I Capture The Castle that the heroine, Cassandra, was writing her diary in a similar sixpenny notebook. She eventually progressed to a shilling notebook. My Woolworths rarely stocked such expensive luxuries. Then, two thirds of the way through the book, Cassandra is given a two-guinea red leather manuscript book. I lusted after that fictional notebook for years. I told my mother, Biddy. She rolled her eyes. It could have cost two hundred guineas - both were way out of our league... My dad, Harry, was a civil servant. One of the few perks of his job was that he had an unlimited illegal supply of notepads watermarked SO - Stationery Office. I'd drawn on these pads for years, I'd scribbled stories, I'd written letters. They were serviceable but unexciting: thin cream paper unreliably bound with glue at the top. You couldn't write a journal with these notepads; it would fall apart in days... My spelling wasn't too hot. It still isn't. Thank goodness for the spellcheck on my computer!

Really, this people, only yesterday so intelligent and discerning, seem to have been overcome by a disease of the mind

One always sees the soul through words. (22 July 1922)

Övgüler yerindeydi de, yerinde olmayan sinirlerimdi.

Rose, we are here today. Tomorrow we don’t know where life will take us to. So, as long as we have today in our hands, let’s not slip it from our hands. Let’s live it!

She'd loved birds long before her physical limitations kept her grounded. She'd found a birding diary of her grandmother's in a trunk in the attic when she was Frankie's age, and when she asked her father about it, he dug through boxes on a shelf high above her head, handing down a small pair of binoculars and some field guides. She'd seen her first prothonotary warbler when she was nine, sitting alone on a tupelo stump in the forest, swatting at mosquitoes targeting the pale skin behind her ears. She glanced up from the book she was reading only to be startled by an unexpected flash of yellow. Holding her breath, she fished for the journal she kept in her pocket, focusing on the spot in the willow where he might be. A breeze stirred the branches, and she saw the brilliant yellow head and underparts standing out like petals of a sunflower against the backdrop of leaves; the under tail, a stark white. His beak was long, pointed and black; his shoulders a mossy green, a blend of the citron yellow of his head and the flat slate of his feathers. He had a black dot of an eye, a bead of jet set in a field of sun. Never had there been anything so perfect. When she blinked he disappeared, the only evidence of his presence a gentle sway of the branch. It was a sort of magic, unveiled to her. He had been hers, even if only for a few seconds. With a stub of pencil- 'always a pencil,' her grandmother had written. 'You can write with a pencil even in the rain'- she noted the date and time, the place and the weather. She made a rough sketch, using shorthand for her notes about the bird's coloring, then raced back to the house, raspberry canes and brambles speckling bloody trails across her legs. In the field guide in the top drawer of her desk, she found him again: prothonotary warbler, 'prothonotary' for the clerks in the Roman Catholic Church who wore robes of a bright yellow. It made absolute sense to her that something so beautiful would be associated with God. After that she spent countless days tromping through the woods, toting the drab knapsack filled with packages of partially crushed saltines, the bottles of juice, the bruised apples and half-melted candy bars, her miniature binoculars slung across one shoulder. She taught herself how to be patient, how to master the boredom that often accompanied careful observation. She taught herself how to look for what didn't want to be seen.

She abandoned herself to his whim, thinking it was to be an orgy of eyes and hands only.

She is not an ordinary girl. She is my fairy who will change my life and make it beautiful with her smiles.

She might not be cinderella to lose her shoe to find her prince or Rapunzel for that matter who will lift him up to set her free only to be lost in him, or Snow-white to be kissed and awakened by a Prince or any other princesses but yet she knows, she believes her destiny has a Prince in store for her - Her man. She would be his Princess and he would be her prince.

She believes in love, in destiny and she knows ...she feels her prince in her destiny. She just has to wait for the right time.....

So what if he is not part of my present but he is in my future, I know. And everyday I'm going a step closer to my future, to him.

Sometimes your diary is the perfect listener.

That's not FOR REAL.

That's what I must avoid: I mustn't put strangeness where there's nothing. I think that is the danger of keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything, you are on the look-out, and you continually stretch the truth.

That's the thing with a diary, though. In order to record your life, you sort of need to live it. Not at your desk, but beyond it. Out in the world where it's so beautiful and complex and painful that sometimes you just need to sit down and write about it.

The day you left, it felt like I lost a diary in which I had been writing for so long. Now all that memories flashes in bits and pieces inside my head always and makes me wish that I could sit back and read it all over again.

The worse thing I have done in my life is Diary writing.... a wastage of time, wastage of papers filled with some imaginary feelings and bunch of silly activities done each day.... I cant feel any glimpse of appreciable work done by me, as whatever right I did, my Diary says " you were suppose to do it, so it was not a big deal....huhhh..." I passed my last few nights in reading most of its pages.... "I laughed on the lines telling about my saddest moments and nights when I cried….. but I felt woeful and downhearted on the lines telling about the moments when I shared my smile with someone, when I enjoyed the moments with my friends and near and dear ones, who r far and far now, and we can’t get those moments back in this busy selfish life" So now its better in busy life to live evry day and forget it in night.... enjoy life.... save papers.... no diary writing from today..... Sorry Diary, You will Miss Me....

The saddest line you scraped in your diary was not that you cried but those moments when we both shared smile.

The thing about my diary is that I lied in it. I obscured the truth. I never told even the empty space around me the whole story. I was afraid someone would find it, read it, know me. I wanted them to know a different girl. A better one.

The fact is, I have been dead so long and it has been simply such a grim shoving of the hours behind me…since the hideous summer of ’78, when I went down to the deep sea, its dark waters closed over me and I knew neither hope nor peace.

The following year the house was substantially remodeled, and the conservatory removed. As the walls of the now crumbling wall were being torn down, one of the workmen chanced upon a small leatherbound book that had apparently been concealed behind a loose brick or in a crevice in the wall. By this time Emily Dickinson was a household name in Amherst. It happened that this carpenter was a lover of poetry- and hers in particular- and when he opened the little book and realized that that he had found her diary, he was “seized with a violent trembling,” as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home. He told himself that after he had read and savored every page, he would turn the diary over to someone who would know how to best share it with the public. But as he read, he fell more and more deeply under the poet’s spell and began to imagine that he was her confidant. He convinced himself that in his new role he was no longer obliged to give up the diary. Finally, having brushed away the light taps of conscience, he hid the book at the back of an oak chest in his bedroom, from which he would draw it out periodically over the course of the next sixty-four years until he had virtually memorized its contents. Even his family never knew of its existence. Shortly before his death in 1980 at the age of eighty-nine, the old man finally showed his most prized possession to his grandson (his only son having preceded him in death), confessing that his delight in it had always been tempered by a nagging guilt and asking that the young man now attempt to atone for his grandfather’s sin. The grandson, however, having inherited both the old man’s passion for poetry and his tendency towards paralysis of conscience, and he readily succumbed to the temptation to hold onto the diary indefinitely while trying to decide what ought to be done with it.

The platonic love I feel for my cousin, made me write this diary ...” Leione

There's no doubt in my mind that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice; & that interests me so that I feel I can go ahead without praise.' (26 July 1922)

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.

This evening : Fischl and Mayreder debated on Secession, Fischl pro and Mayreder contra - primarily against Olbrich. It's all very well to dismiss him, to criticize - but just try doing better yourself dear Mayreder ! It was the fourth time that M. had called on us in the last few days, and we're heartily glad to be rid of him. Nobody misses him, myself least of all. - I wonder if he's still fond of me? He's very taken with the Secessionist painters, being particularly 'enamoured' - as he puts it - of Bacher, Engelhart and Klimt. Of the latter he says he can well understand young ladies falling for him "in a big way". Oh yes, that was fun : while Kuehl, Klimt, Mayreder, Jettel etc. were here, Klimt gave me the idea of shaping my bread into a heart. I did so, then he formed a toothpick into an arrow and plunged it into the heart. He took red wine and made it flow from the would. It looked really good. He gave it to Mayreder as 'my wounded heart'. On reflection, I can see that it was a very brutal joke and I regret it, for at the time Mayreder gave me a look that went straight through me. Incidentally, Klimt knows that M. is fond of me. He noticed - and said as much as well. I didn't deny it.

This idea struck me: the army is the body : I am the brain. Thinking is my fighting. (15 May 1940)

Today was very full, but the problem isn't today. It's tomorrow. I'd be able to recover from today if it weren't for tomorrow. There should be extra days, buffer days, between real days.

Today there's no one here, so I find a rock and open my notebook filled with letters to Lucca, reading them, noticing how the letters decreased in frequency over the past couple of months. When i started, shortly after he died, I wrote them every day. I hurt so bad, I wanted to scream, but I couldn't, so my words on the page became a diary of the pain.

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

To write a diary is to make a series of choices about what to omit, what to forget. A memorable sandwich, an unmemorable flight of stairs. A memorable bit of conversation surrounded by chatter that no one records.

Very slowly, with hands, tongues, mouths, we unwrapped and untied ourselves, laying open gifts. Gave birth to each other again, as separate bodies who enjoy collision.

What a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! (...) I think I could happily live here & read forever.

Women are like locked diaries that men expect to read like open books.

What he loved about Spanish soap operas is you could make what people say mean anything.