Buts Quotes (page 673)
It is so easy to let life go by us in its swift amusing course, that sometimes it hardly seems worthwhile to attempt any bold strokes for truth. Truth, of course, does not need assistance; it can afford to ignore our errors. But in this quiet place, among the whisper of the trees, I seem to have heard a disconcerning sound. I have heard laughter, and I think it is the laughter of God.
Christopher Morley
![John Fowles quote: "Death is not in the nature of things; it is the nature of..."](/pic/388324/600x316/quotation-john-fowles-death-is-not-in-the-nature-of-things-it-is-the.jpg)
Garraty wondered how it would be, to lie in the biggest, dustiest library silence of all, dreaming endless, thoughtless dreams behind your gummed-down eyelids, dressed forever in your Sunday suit. No worries about money, success, fear, joy, pain, sorrow, sex, or love. Absolute zero. No father, mother, girlfriend, lover. The dead are orphans. No company but the silence like a moth's wing. An end to the agony of movement, to the long nightmare of going down the road. The body in peace,...
Stephen King
It’s up to the writer and the artist to give voice to these people. There are two impulses in art: one is rebellious and transgressive—you explore regions in which you are not wanted, and you will be punished for that. But the other is a way of sympathy—evoking sympathy for people who may be different from us—whom we don’t know. Art is a way of breaking down the barriers between people—these two seemingly antithetical impulses toward rebellion and toward sympathy come together in art.
Joyce Carol Oates
![Joseph Conrad quote: "A writing may be lost; a lie may be written; but what the eye..."](/pic/388282/600x316/quotation-joseph-conrad-a-writing-may-be-lost-a-lie-may-be-written-but.jpg)
Formerly I believed books were made like this: a poet came, lightly opened his lips, and the inspired fool burst into song? if you please! But it seems, before they can launch a song, poets must tramp for days with callused feet, and the sluggish fish of the imagination flounders softly in the slush of the heart. And while, with twittering rhymes, they boil a broth of loves and nightingales, the tongueless street merely writhes for lack of something to shout or say
Vladimir Mayakovsky