Best 28 quotes in «relateable quotes» category

I am reluctant to believe anything that was written during times when superstition held more weight than science, and when the world was thought to be flat.

I'd come from work, change into my pajamas because bras are the devil's work.

I guess it’s also not a good thing when you start relating yourself to a late nineteenth century nut bag who shot himself, but hey, you’ve got to relate to something if you ever want to feel relevant.

I have always felt a fundamental core of loneliness in me. Perhaps it comes from being an only child. Perhaps it's my grandfather's sullen thick German blood. I have been alone with my wife and alone with my children, untouchable, unreachable, and I suspect that most of the time they haven't known. It runs deep, this aloneness. I have accommodated it. It informs all my relationships and all my expectations. It makes me almost impossible to surprise by life's grimmer turns of fate.

She smiled. Sam smiled back. She died.

It’s too much. And I don’t want to embrace the suck. I want things to not suck. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Reading a stranger's words and finding yourself in them.

I was drowning in broad daylight and no one could tell.

Sobs force their way out of my throat. I feel like I’m trapped in a disaster movie where everything is shriveling into darkness and ash. Sunflowers are being uprooted. Puppies are being trampled. Whole cities are crumbling to dust.

(showing 1-2 of 2) sort by ↑ top up up 1 position down down ↓ bottom Remove this quote from your collectionSalvador Dalí “I don't do drugs. I am drugs.” ― Salvador Dalí tags: drugs 918 likes ↑ top up up 2 position down down ↓ bottom Remove this quote from your collection “But it's funny how even after all these years you find yourself wondering just how well you know anyone. Hell, we've all been tight since we we're kids - been through a lot together - but we still have secrets, don't we? All of us. None of us are ever exactly, precisely what we claim to be, are we? We're one way with some people, another way with other people, maybe another way still when we're all alone. That's what it boils down to fellas. At night, when you're lying there in bed looking at the ceiling, remembering the day, thinking back through things you did and what lies ahead, when it's just you and whatever god you pray to in the dark ...that's when all the masks are peeled away and it's just you. Just you..., and whoever...or whatever you are.

Very often the characters people respond best to have little parts of reality they can relate to.

There's always the part of you, the part that hides in the shadows protecting the self-destruct button, that doesn't want to leave the dark behind.

This wasn't good, but it was something. Cath could always change it later. That was the beauty in stacking up words--they got cheaper, the more you had of them. It would feel good to come back and cut this when she had worked her way to something better.

The girl in 8G has no faith in herself," Marla shouts, "and she's worried that as she grows older, she'll have fewer and fewer options.

They say that you need to ride the rails for a while to understand the traveling blues. They're wrong. To understand the traveling blues you need to be locked down somewhere. In a cell. Or in the army. Someplace where you're caged. Someplace where smokestack lightning looks like a faraway beacon of impossible freedom.

We did all the tourist crap, but I just wanted to sit in a cafe and watch people

You haven't been fired," Mary said with a sigh. "You always jump to the worst possible conclusion. Why on earth would you be getting fired?" Don't say the pens, don't say the pens, don't say the pens . . . "I've nicked loads of pens." "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.

working to my potential.' It's like every teacher I have has some sort of manual to use when talking to me. She finished with, 'You have so much going for you,' which was the dumbest thing anyone, even Laurie, has ever said to me.

Writing was what I did best, better than being a daughter or girlfriend or sister. Writing was me.

You'll be better able to climb and descend stairs like a healthy person as opposed to a broken runner who navigates steps like landmines.

But I know what it’s like when everyone seems to look at you as if you’re a strange creature impossible to understand, so much so you begin to wonder if they’re right.

As I move to the front office, I bring the warm copies to my face and breathe them in. This is a weird habit of mine—sniffing copies. I do the same thing when I get a new book. What can I say? I have a paper sniffing problem. Things could be worse.

And I ordered the cheesecake.

Eleanor, ruining everything. Eleanor, gone.

He's really so adorable. The dog, I mean. Did you know he's a rescue beagle?" I'd remembered Frank and Sam had used the term the day I'd first encountered Bandit, but I'd just assumed it meant that he'd come from the pound. Rachel had set me straight. "They use them to experiment on. You know, in laboratories. Sam says they use beagles because they're so gentle and sweet-tempered they won't even bite you when you're hurting them. And after a few years when they 'retire' the dogs, some labs give them to rescue groups who try to find them homes. Sam says that Bandit didn't even know what grass was when he got him. It's his second rescue beagle. He had one before, a girl dog, but she ended up with cancer and he had to put her down. So he got Bandit." "Beagles," Sam said now, as he stood squarely on the scaffolding, "don't like to be alone. So she'll be doing me a favor." "What about the doggie day-care place?" "Nah. There's a Labradoodle there that's always picking on him. He'll be better hanging out with Rachel." I was not completely fooled. I knew he'd talked to Rachel for a while, because she'd told me that he had. "He's really nice," she'd said. "He listens." So I knew he knew that Rachel wasn't finding this an easy time, and I suspected Sam just figured she and Bandit were a lot alike in needing some companionship from somebody who understood and didn't push their boundaries. Whatever his true motivations, it was an inspired move.

Getting responses on "Through the Milky Way" that it is creating an emotional investment by some of my readers. A gentleman I have know for awhile took the book on a vacation to the beach. While reading it, his wife came up to him and asked him why he was crying. He told her the book was sad and something he could relate to. Had others with the same response.

He’d heard once that the only people who could effectively treat the trauma of surviving an airplane crash were other survivors of airplane crashes. You could only instinctively trust someone who had been there, who had seen it firsthand.

He is a longing I will never cure.