Best 132 quotes in «searching quotes» category

In searching for myself, I have created myself.

Looking at the corpses and the crowds relentlessly searching I understood that a body could not be laid to rest until it was matched to a name.

In town, there's a tiny beach that's never busy, not even in the summer. I used to like walking there, looking for stuff. Like old fireworks. Or kelp. A hat knocked off someone's head by the wind. You basically never find what you were expecting to. And maybe you weren't expecting to find anything right from the start...

I see... the way you're always searching. How much you hate anything fake or phony. How you're older than your years, but still... playful, like a little girl. How you're always looking into people, or wondering what they see when they look back at you. Your eyes. It's all in the eyes.

It doesn’t matter whether you are looking for a reason to be happy or sad, you will always find it.

It's an easy guess, why some get famous over night and not during the day.

It wasn't so much that I was in search of answers. In fact, I was wary of the whole idea of answers. I wanted to climb all the way inside of the questions and see what was there.

I was aware that I had been looking for him on every street, in every crowd.

I wonder the world desperate to find the edge of myself… Existence is an art.

Looks like they went crazy and started cacking each other.’ Lisa said to me as we walked through the ship, searching for a single survivor. There were what looked to be barricades in the corridors. The elevator doors were shot through from the inside. So were the sides and the roof!

I spent days and nights staring at the blank page, searching the deepest corners of my mind: who have I been, what have I seen, what did I learn? I thought about all the nights I've spent outside, all the times I laid down to cry and how I took a deep breath every morning and decided to simply go on. Because what else is there to do? Decide that this is it? I quit, I'm done? Oh if I could find words to justify those feelings I've carried. I could write the thickest of books with explosions of emotions from a young girl's lost heart. I could make you see, make you hear, make you feel, at least a tiny fragment of what's out there.

Is that it?” “No. That’s a wall.” “It could be disguised.” “You’re not very good at looking for things, are you?” “I’m good at looking for walls. Look, I found another one.

I walked the streets looking for something instead of letting what I wanted, to look for me.

LOVE the hideous in order to find the sublime core of it.

Love was as flawed and terrible and beautiful as we were. To be alive meant looking for it in ourselves and in others, an imperfection searching for an impossible perfection. Because in that journey was where truth resided. Love wasn’t about being held. It was about being freed.

Maybe you leave because you long to know. Maybe you leave not because of longing but because you must. Or maybe you leave simply to find the answers you’ve held inside of you all along.

Maybe he, like me, is engaged in the kind of unspoken rebellion you don't want to perform too brightly since you're never certain anyone in your family will notice your darkened eyes, skeleton shoes, tousled hair, patchy attendance record. You may be sacrificing body and soul on a ghostly battlefield, fighting across a divide seen by no one but you.

My discontent has accumulated over the past months, searching for a leak in the dam I’ve constructed to separate my true feelings from the situation closing in around me.

Most folks don't have but a few days to a week's worth of food in their houses at any given time. When they run out, they'll have to forage. Only the fools will forage in town. The smart ones will look on the outskirts.

Nothing is in the middle of somewhere, surrounded by everything, where everyone is someplace, and still lacking the someone, I need most.

My mother once said, 'If you come across a man with more than one personality, you can be sure he's looking for himself in one of them, because he has no character.' But I think she was wrong

Never stop searching.

My mother and father were always pushing me away from secondhand answers—even the answers they themselves believed. I don’t know that I have ever found any satisfactory answers of my own. But every time I ask it, the question is refined. That is the best of what the old heads meant when they spoke of being “politically conscious”—as much a series of actions as a state of being, a constant questioning, questioning as ritual, questioning as exploration rather than the search for certainty.

Not everyone is looking an an answer; often people just want to be heard.

No wonder Americans seemed crazy to everybody else--they were utterly alone in the vastness of this ridiculously immense land. They all skittered about, alighting and flying off again like frantic butterflies. Looking for--what? What were they looking for?

Of all the things we share, the most central is not in the liturgical or theological or canonical dimensions of the religion. It is in the realm of our personal​ search and experience of God. I have danced in a Sufi fikre, sat for hours in a Zen Buddhist tea ceremony, been part of a Hindu puja, attended Shabbat services in multiple Jewish synagogues, and never, in any of those moments of worship, did I doubt these people were just as deeply involved in the search for God as I am. And that God was with us all. And why not? God is everywhere, they told us as children. But the question never goes away: Yes, but - where is God for me? I don't feel God. I don't hear God. I don't know how to know God. So God is surely in all these other places where the consciousness of God is also real, as well. But as much as I knew, even as a child, that it had to be true, that God was everywhere, still God was nowhere in particular in life. And, though I did not know it at the time, and so struggled through the thought of god for night after night in life, in that reality was all I needed to know about the search for God. It was years, of course, before I realized that I was looking for Something rather than for Everything, and so I found nothing because I was looking for the wrong thing. And that is the kind of seeking that causes all the pain.

Of course. Treasure hunts make much better stories when there’s treasure at the end.

Searching for the best solution is by far the best excuse for inaction.

People spend their entire lives searching the world for the pieces that will make them whole, yet those pieces are only found within them.

Rejections will redirect you to more exciting roads. When you think your life is falling apart, it’s usually falling together in disguise. Your search will throw you on journeys you never would have dreamt of, in your mind and in the world.

On that search for happiness we did nothing with all those other emotions that made us human.

Peeling one layer after another and never once getting close enough to the truth. A dive into the deeper and darker and hidden corner of his world. Searching for some kind of light; for his guidance goodwill and affection.

People on foot, on bikes, in cars, on planes-all chasing freedom.

She was unlike the women one normally encounters sitting on a chair in the terrace. She had a lost look in her eyes. She had a faraway gaze. It seemed as if she was searching for something in life!

She walked among the stars, The princess of the heavens, Looking for the one who caught her crystal tears That spilled out from liquid ice blue eyes- Rolling down pale cheeks- Then sealed up tenderly... In pearl alabaster jars...

She would search for him. In the land that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. But there was no way there.

The Ache That Would Not Leave Behind the hum and routine of daily living, there lay a persistent and wild longing for something she could not easily put into words. It felt like impulsive adventures and watching the sun rise over unfamiliar mountains, or coffee in a street café, set to the background music of a foreign language. It was the smell of the ocean, with dizzying seagulls whirling in a cobalt sky; exotic foods and strange faces, in a city where no one knew her name. She wanted secrets whispered at midnight, and road trips without a map, but most of all, she ached for someone who desired to explore the mysteries that lay sleeping within her. The truly heartbreaking part was that she could feel the remaining days of her life falling away, like leaves from an autumn tree, but still this mysterious person who held the key to unlock her secrets did not arrive; they were missing, and she knew not where to find them.

Somewhere in this world there exists an exceptional philosopher named Florie Rotondo. The other day I came across one of her ruminations printed in a magazine devoted to the writings of schoolchildren. It said: “If I could do anything, I would go to the middle of our planet, Earth, and seek uranium, rubies, and gold. I'd look for Unspoiled Monsters. Then I'd move to the country. --Florie Rotondo, age 8.” Florie, honey, I know just what you mean – even if you don’t: how could you, age eight?

Stop entertaining two faced people. You know the ones who have split personalities and untrustworthy habits. Nine times out of ten if they telling you stuff about another person, they're going to tell your business to other people. If they say, "You know I heard........." More than likely it's in their character to share false information. Beware of your box, circle, square! Whatever you want to call it.

Some, often without knowing it, suffered from being deprived of the company of friends and from their inability to get in touch with them through the usual channels of friendship, letters, trains, and boats. Others, fewer these, Tarrou may have been one of them, had desired reunion with something they couldn't have defined, but which seemed to them the only desirable thing on earth. For want of a better name, they sometimes called it peace.

Sometimes the best way to find your road is to get lost. Sometimes the only way to find a way is to get lost.

The creatures I seek do not want to be seen.

The darkest hours bring the most light.

The centre of me is always and eternally in terrible pain ... A searching for something beyond what the world contains, something transfiguring and infinite.

The healing is my working out my salvation. The need constant because my desire for seperateness constantly wrestles with my need for oneness with Jesus. The search for Jesus is bigger, deeper and agonizing.

The lady set off, in search of summers long past, always just around the next corner. On a basic level, maybe all of us on the path were the same; perhaps we were all looking for something. Looking back, looking forward or just looking for something that was missing. Drawn to the edge, a strip of wilderness where we could be free to let the answers come, or not, to find a way of accepting life, our life, whatever that was. Were we searching this narrow margin between the land and the sea for another way of being, becoming edgelanders along the way. Stuck between one world and the next. Walking a thin line between tame and wild, lost and found, life and death. At the edge of existence.

There is a certain kind of man who is forever searching. He wanders from place to place, he looks hard into the eyes of women and men in every town, maybe he scratches the earth or wields a gun, remedies illnesses or writes books, and there is always a vague emptiness within him. It is the emptiness that drives him and he does not know even how to name that thing that might fill it. No idea of home or love or peace comes to him. He does not know, so he cannot stop. On and on he moves. and the emptiness blinds him and pulls at him and he is like a newborn baby searching for the teat, knowing it is there, but where? And sometimes such a man is handed a gift. A gift of direction. A path that is marked for him and there, yes, this will ease your suffering, it is sure. This will cure you, it will fill you up, at least for a time. There will be a home, and love, there will no longer be the sorrow when you look at a cold night sky, the sorrow as the sun rises and the mist burns away.

The letters, the fading. The labyrinth, the cake. The four hundred brackish lakes of the brain. She searches for the music, but she can't find it. Oh, God, it was here only the other day.

The ocean flows of online information are all streaming together, and the access tools are becoming absolutely critical. If you don’t index it, it doesn’t exist. It’s out there but you can’t find it, so it might as well not be there.

There would be no more offerings. Not this day. Not any day. Humankind had suffered enough for its love of gods, its long search for God. He thought of the many centuries in which his people, the Jews, had negotiated with God, complaining, bickering, decrying the unfairness of things but always - always - returning to obedience at whatever the cost. Generations dying in the ovens of hatred. Future generations scarred by the cold fires of radiation and renewed hatred.