Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
Something he knew he had missed: the flower of life. But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery.
Half the trouble in life is caused by pretending there isn't any.
I was just a screw or cog in the great machine I called life, and when I dropped out of it I found I was of no use anywhere else.
Little as she was addicted to solitude, there had come to be moments when it seemed a welcome escape from the empty noises of her life.
She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.
She had been bored all afternoon by Percy Gryce... but she could not ignore him on the morrow, she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptibilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her for life.
She was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the light fell on his thin, dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his clothes-she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven with her deepest life.
Life is the only real counselor; wisdom unfiltered through personal experience does not become a part of the moral tissue.
Though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him The House of Life. He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffebly tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions.
Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories